


A Gentle Silence Wrought With Music

by aethylas



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballads, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Plotty, Prophecy, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 145,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aethylas/pseuds/aethylas
Summary: During the celebrations of Imbaelk, divinations are made for the coming year. But the omens bode ill for the people of the Continent – they foretell widespread plague, devastating famine, and other unprecedented calamities.Geralt of Rivia has never had much time for prophecies. The only thing he wants is to find Ciri, who vanished four years ago without a trace. Nevertheless, the White Wolf finds himself unwillingly drawn into the games of kings and mages, as even the most powerful in the land struggle to fight the rising darkness...[A canon-divergent story taking place in 1272, which incorporates various elements from the books, show and games.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 336
Kudos: 247





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the same year as _The Witcher 3_ , although its history deviates from the book canon before the ending of _The Lady of the Lake_. Specifically, the timeline has diverged at some point prior to the events of the Rivian Pogrom, which means Geralt and Yennefer never lost their memories. It contains some mild, overarching spoilers for existing canon. You shouldn’t need to have an understanding of any particular canon for this fic, although [this map](https://atlasoficeandfireblog.files.wordpress.com/2019/04/the-witcher-map-1.png) might help you as much as it helped me. 
> 
> The story elements are based on selected or amalgamated canon, particularly characterisation – Geralt falls somewhere between Man of Few Swears TV Geralt and full-page-paragraphs book Geralt. Events have also shifted - for example, Geralt meets Jaskier at Posada, not Gulen. For what it’s worth, I am relying on the Witcher wiki as my primary fact checking point, and have only passing experience with of the games and books. If I write something that seems very wrong, please let me know!
> 
> The title is from [this](https://kalliope.org/en/text/yeats2002021472) Yeats poem, which vaguely inspired this work. All songs/poems within are my own, unless otherwise specified in the chapter notes. The chapter titles indicate the time of year based on the [elven calendar](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Elven_calendar?file=Elven_Wheel_of_the_Year_by_SMiki55.png).
> 
> Finally, I will note that this fic is set in the Witcher universe, and as such inhabits a world of violence, death, and other dark themes, as well as period-typical attitudes. If I think there is particularly grim content in a chapter, I will put a warning note in at the top – however for the most part I believe this fic should not cause distress. Please let me know if you find any of the content difficult, and I will place warnings accordingly.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

> _I have written so many words, upon so many pages. Regrettably, it is often the case that truth makes way for legend, and uncomfortable fact makes way for acceptable fiction._
> 
> _To that end, I enclose my personal account of what took place in the year 1272. I am sure there are many who could tell you the story of that year – the famines, the plague, the devastation it wrought. The ash that filled the sky, and the massacres in the streets. I could tell you the bare facts of what happened, carefully curated for historical records. I could tell you what I wrote in my own published account – the heroic journey that the White Wolf undertook to save the world. I could tell you all of these versions of the same story, and yet none of them would account for me._
> 
> _I am sure you are wondering – why now? Why, after so much time has passed, would you give me this memoir? Well, let me tell you another tale, so that you might understand – oh, don’t look at me like that. It won’t take long. Once upon a time, I met a woman. And she said to me, against all odds I wish to live, because when I die, my home will die with me. She came from a distant land, far different to ours, and she knew that when her memories of that place were dust, it may as well have no longer existed. I could write songs of it, sing it to a thousand taverns, and yet it would become a legend. A fable no-one believes in. Nobody would remember the place she came from, the family she loved, the meals they shared. Those small moments of love and life would be lost to the winds. Or, more accurately, to the earth._
> 
> _Yes, you know the woman of whom I speak._
> 
> _Think of this as an end-of-life crisis. My hair is as white as his now, and I know my time is coming. I have written so many words, and yet the truth of who I was will be lost to time. If I am lucky, I shall be remembered as a great poet, perhaps even mentioned in passing as a companion of Geralt of Rivia. But what matters to me is that my world is passed on to someone else. That I might extend its life, a little longer._
> 
> _More importantly, I want you to know that you made the right choice. I know the decision still haunts you, but I wanted you to understand the happiness you gave me. That you gave all of us, no matter how fleeting that happiness might now seem. It was worth it, my dear. It will always have been worth it._
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well. Come and visit sometime, won’t you?_

_  
-_ Personal correspondence describing a first-hand chronicle of 1272 (missing). Recovered 1629 from a chest in the ruins of a remote northern castle. Unsigned, accredited to the poet ‘Jaskier’, a notable troubadour in the mid 13th century, responsible for works such as _Half a Century of Poetry_. Item catalogued.


	2. Imbaelk - Part One

“Why won’t you _just die_ ,” Geralt grunts.

The ifrit claps its hands together and roars. Flames burst forth from the ground and spit out from the furnaces on either side of the witcher.

Whoever decided to birth an ifrit within a steel forge truly wants to make Geralt’s life as difficult as possible. He bolsters himself for yet another round of fighting, casting Aard to knock it down. As soon as the beast tumbles back he sets upon it, hacking away at its stony flesh with his silver sword. He leaps back as the monster begins to disintegrate, panting heavily and wincing from burns where the ifrit has struck him.

Geralt watches in annoyance as sparks from the furnaces rejuvenate the fallen fire elemental yet again. Its body rolls back together, rocks and stones congealing in a horrifying, grotesque parody of the humanoid form.

 _Need to get him away from the flames,_ Geralt thinks grimly, _or put them out entirely._ He wishes for a moment for the power to manipulate elements, beyond the fire of his Igni Sign. He does not have the right bomb on hand to freeze the fires. Even if he had, there are over twenty furnaces in this section of the building alone.

_Ifrit won’t be stopped in here. Have to get him outside._

“Come on, then,” Geralt taunts, throwing a rock at the monster and backing away as fast as he can. When he is certain the elemental is charging after him, he turns and runs, skidding past towering smelting basins. The forge is held in a labyrinthine building, with long passageways that all seem to look identical. Eventually Geralt is able to retrace his steps to the front of the premises – an enormous arcade, with twin rows of granite columns on either side. He runs to the oversized door at the front, but belatedly remembers it is sealed shut – Geralt’s own damn fault for making sure no civilians were caught up in his hunt. He throws his left hand out in front of him, curling his middle finger down to make the Sign of Aard, and the wooden doors splinter and blast apart.

The ifrit roars again, and charges down the main entranceway towards him. Geralt flees, edging out into the barren courtyard. The once lush grassland has been ground into dirt and dust by the daily movements of workers and heavy carts.

“Alright,” Geralt pants. “Once more.” He and the ifrit roar at each other, and Geralt swings doggedly at it. His arms are tiring quickly, his strikes growing dangerously reckless, but fortunately the beast seems weakened by the chill of the winter night. As though sensing its own demise, the elemental screeches and lashes out with renewed vigour. In that moment, Geralt finally sees an opening. He dodges the blow, and cuts it through with a single, clean sweep of his blade. The ifrit crumbles, and this time the bright sparks between the rocks die out entirely.

Geralt sighs. He kicks at a rock moodily – a fallen part of the ifrit, perhaps an arm or a leg –and is rewarded for his outburst with a throbbing toe. Sweat drenches him under his armour, from the exertion and heat of the fight in the forge, and now in the night air it feels as though he has been dunked into a lake. He does not envy the smelters who make a living working here.

The witcher takes a deep breath, and collects a shard of black glass from where the ifrit stood. Since there is no longer a visible head on the would-be corpse, it will have to do as a trophy. He trudges across the dirt road to where Roach stands tied to a post, scratching the horse’s nose fondly as an apology for his absence, and unravelling her reigns from the fence. Roach whinnies in reply as Geralt jumps up onto the horse’s saddle.

“Giddy up, Roach,” Geralt murmurs, and they set off together to the gates of Gulet. The steelworks are about three miles out from the main citadel, and so by the time Geralt is inside the city walls, the clouds have shifted, and the stars have disappeared behind their veil. Iron lamps flicker uneasily in the city streets, but otherwise there is no movement at all. The freezing temperatures have, it seems, sent all the life of Aedirn indoors – even the drunks and the rats.

Geralt reaches his inn and wishes Roach goodnight at the nearby stables. The inn door whines as he opens it, cold air rushing in behind Geralt. The innkeeper lies asleep at the bar counter, snoring gently next to a spilled mug of milk. Geralt creeps past him and treads lightly up the stairs to his room, taking care not to step on any floorboards that creak.

Moonlight streams in through the window of his lodgings, bathing the room in a cool blue cast. Geralt sits cross-legged on the made bed, deciding to forego sleep for meditation. It is only two hours until sunrise, and the sooner he collects his reward, the sooner he can head forth from the city.

He thinks briefly of Ciri, and wonders if he will ever find a lead on where she has gone. It has been four years with no word or clue as to her whereabouts. He has found no trace of her in Gulet, nor anywhere in Aedirn for that matter. He will head west for Velen in the morning – he heard a rumour of silver-haired girls who run through the woods. He has searched there before, of course, but the Continent is vast, and his work endless. There is no reason why he should not go west again. It is not as though he has a better star to navigate by.

* * *

The next morning Geralt is drawn from his meditation by the sound of festive music. It is barely dawn; sighing, he squints out the mottled glass window to find a rowdy band playing right outside the inn.

 _Odd,_ Geralt thinks. It wasn’t exactly good for business, to have street music waking the hungover travellers of a city inn at this hour. Since he is already awake, he decides to pack and leave. At least this way, he can avoid the morning crush of carts and horses exiting the city gates. He pays a generous tip to the innkeeper, who has a noticeable red mark engraved into his cheek where it rested on the bar counter all night.

“Leaving before the Sprouting?” the innkeeper asks in a good-natured voice. “You’ll not be able to buy any supplies for your trip today, you know! Businesses close right across the city!”

 _Fuck_. Geralt hasn’t been watching the calendar.

“Forgot,” Geralt grunts. “I’ll stay another night, then, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh no, good sir,” the innkeeper says, apologetic. “I’m afraid we’re all booked out. People come from far and wide to stay here for the Sprouting, you know. Street markets in the main square are renowned across Aedirn.”

“Any idea where I could stay, then?” Geralt replies, annoyed. The issue of merchants closing their stores is irritating, but even more so is the fact he’ll be unable to find the man who posted the ifrit contract. Today will be a day of chaos, everyone in the city flitting about and getting thoroughly drunk. Even if he could locate the guild master in question, it is likely he would be uninterested in completing their business until the following day.

The innkeeper seems to ponder this a moment. “Perhaps the Rotted Hare. It’s on the outskirts of the city, so it’s not close to the festivities – and it doesn’t attract the most savoury of customers.”

“With a name like that, I’m not surprised,” Geralt replies drily. He nods to the innkeeper, and takes his leave. “Enjoy the festivities.”

“Gods be with you!”

As soon as Geralt steps onto the street, he is overwhelmed by the noise of carts and chattering city folk, all moving uphill. The band is even louder than he imagined; two flautists set the tune while a psaltery is played for harmony. A booming drum, twice as tall and wide as its dwarven player, sets the marching beat. Children are laughing and dancing underfoot. It’s the kind of chaos that Geralt had predicted, and he abandons any residual hope of collecting his pay. He supposes he may as well head in the direction of the crowd; fighting against the flow of foot traffic on the narrow street will be more trouble than it is worth.

He lets himself be taken with the tide, and is similarly taken along with the mood of the moment. The crowd has a contagious excitement. Although Geralt has seen many such festivals in his time, he nevertheless finds himself feeling something like fondness towards the people around him.

As they enter the main square of Gulet, Geralt’s memory is jogged by the site of a large market with colourful tents and flags. He has been here before once, he thinks, although perhaps during a different festival. He watches as children are loaded onto some sort of amusement ride – a series of ropes and levers pulls them skywards, and they scream with delight.

“Mama, I’m flying!” yells a girl. Beside her, a boy tied to the same harness makes a scary face.

“Blargh! I’m an ekhidna! I’ll claw out your eyes!”

After a brief inspection of the stalls, Geralt concludes that the market does not sell any items he particularly wants. Most of the vendor’s goods are variations of traveller’s trinkets and useless love potions.

“Stamina juice, sir? Potions for seduction? All manner of things to spice up the bedroom,” shouts a hawker in his direction. Geralt ignores him, but he hears another voice laugh a reply.

“Don’t be an id’jit, Ableton. That there’s Geralt of Rivia! Not two weeks past I ’eard a song about how big ’is cock was, and how many times ’e’s fucked that sorceress of ‘is!”

Geralt winces. _Jaskier,_ he thinks, although it could just as well be another bard. Part of him hopes it _is_ Jaskier – he recalls running into the bard long ago in this very city. Despite himself, Geralt finds he misses his friend. Perhaps he has been alone on the road for too long, without his mindless chatter to break up the monotony of travel. Jaskier would say life is too easy for Geralt without him. Too boring without Geralt constantly pulling the bard up by the scruff of his neck, away from his latest fuck up.

He idles in the market for a few hours, looking for anything malevolent that might cause problems for the buyers. A cursed locket being pawned off, perhaps, or a mislabelled tonic. However, his cursory review of the stalls does not seem to reveal anything untoward, and so he decides to purchase some food. He pays for some skewered meat sticks from one of the food vendors, along with a flowery tea.

Chamomile, Geralt thinks absently.

“The new oracle is comin’!” squeals an excited young woman beside him. “We gotta get good seats for the divinin’, or we won’t be able to see nothin’!”

“Let’s try and get up on that monument!” says her friend, pointing at an obelisk in the centre of the square. In front of it is a raised wooden platform, a temporary construction upon which Geralt assumes some sort of play will take place. His natural height means he does not have the same problem as the two women – instead, he takes to leaning on a wall, right next to a nearby fountain. From this vantage point he can see most of the crowd, clustered and crushed in the square like fish caught in a net.

It is only a few minutes later that he sees a man dressed in black ascend the scaffolding and stand proudly on the dais. “Ladies and gentlemen,” booms the orator. “Boys and girls! From the far reaches of the Continent, from across the Great Sea, from the deep forests beyond Zangvebar, I give to you – our very own prophetess, Xierra!”

A dark woman robed in white takes the stage, with the gravitas and grace of a dryad. Geralt’s eyes are drawn to the ostentatious jewellery in her ears and around her neck. The gems in her earrings glint distractingly in the midday sun.

“Bring them forth,” commands the oracle. Three young men hurry onto the platform, bringing a lamb, a crane, and some sort of thick branch.

The oracle takes the branch first. The crowd is breathless with excitement as she ceremoniously snaps the wood in half. From this distance, Geralt cannot make out what kind of tree the branch belongs to – but he notices a surplus of red sap seeping forth from the break. The woman murmurs words under her breath, and Geralt can almost make out the sounds over the complete silence of the crowd.

“The land will wither this year,” the oracle declares finally. Geralt has to admit surprise; usually celebrations like this bring out showmen who promise good luck, rather than bringing down people’s morale by warning of ill omens.

The crowd’s mood shifts. Hushed whispers break out in the audience.

 _Evidently,_ Geralt thinks, _they were not expecting such a poor fortune either._

The oracle takes the crane next. It flutters piteously as it is passed from one set of hands to another. Its wings have been clipped, so as not to take flight and escape. Geralt feels a flicker of sympathy for the bird.

She takes three feathers from the crane, and passes it back. Geralt feels a little relief that the bird will not be killed – but no, then she is gesturing for a chalice. One of her assistants brings it forward, while another holds the crane lengthwise above it.

The woman takes out a knife from her robe pockets, and slices the neck of the bird in a clean cut. Blood gushes into the silver chalice, and smoke rises from its contents. He has not seen this spell used before, and cannot decide whether it is real, for show, or something in between. Perhaps it is a bastardisation of old magic. Or perhaps she really does come from a faraway land, and this is merely their own peculiar way of arranging Chaos. 

Finally, the woman drops in the three feathers. She waits for a moment, and then tips the chalice up as she drains the contents. Rivulets of blood stream down her chin.

“I thank thee, Crane, for offering your life for our wisdom, that we might learn what you know of the Skies,” the oracle intones. The crowd is silent again, waiting with bated breath. She pauses for effect, and then speaks slowly and clearly, her voice ringing across the square.

“The knowledge of the cranes tells me these three things: That stars will fall from the sky. That blood will swallow the land. And that darkness will consume light.”

She blinks, and then shudders. The audience gasps as she throws up, spewing bloody remnants back into the chalice from whence they came. The oracle takes a few deep breaths, and then wipes her mouth on her white sleeves, staining them with crimson.

“The final sacrifice!” she orders, voice only the slightest bit hoarse. Geralt respects her commitment.

The third assistant brings forth the lamb, which bleats pathetically as it is led along on a leash. The crowd are apprehensive, now – over the lamb’s future as well as their own, Geralt expects.

This time the killing is done without much ceremony. The woman flips the lamb and slits it from throat to tail, with the same bloody knife she used for the crane. She pries open its flesh and stares into its innards. Geralt’s enhanced hearing picks up on more than one person retching in the audience.

It is with this final sacrifice that the woman seems to at last lose some of her careful composure. Her expression looks briefly horrified, and she seems to sway slightly as though about to faint. She stands, her bloody hands holding a small, withered organ.

“The stomach is empty. There will be a great famine across this land!”

The crowd’s silence breaks completely, and women and children start to wail alongside the oracle. Those who aren’t crying are muttering furiously to their neighbours; Geralt hears some denouncing the oracle for a fraud or an actress, while others talk of moving to greener pastures.

The woman descends from the stage, and a nervous, thin man rushes up to fill her place on it. “Please, everyone!” he cries. “Do not be alarmed. Prophecy is a fickle thing, and more often than not, the meanings are the opposite of what one expects. Do not let this ruin your day – the sun is bright and shining. The world is not ending. Xierra’s prophecies are imprecise, and could just as well apply to Nilfgaard or Kovir. Let us focus on the here and now; a long winter has ended, and we may begin the joyous growth of spring!”

Despite the man’s best efforts, Geralt notices the crowd is still unsettled, shifting and muttering around him. But most of the audience stays, and so it is that they welcome a troupe of anxious-looking dancers, who by their fourth routine have won most of the crowd back over into good spirits.

The performances continue for an hour or so, and Geralt is turning to leave the square when he feels his medallion tremor violently against his chest.

 _Fuck,_ Geralt thinks. Nobody has visibly entered the square or passed him; finding the source of the magic in a crowd this thick would prove difficult if not impossible. He decides to stay put, eyes darting around the crowd for any sign of a disturbance. Most of the crowd are blissfully peaceful, however, being carried away by the voice of the singer on the stage. She is young, and talented, and beautiful. Her hair is the same vibrant colour of Triss’s, and her sweet voice sings of the joys of spring and new birth coming to replace the emptiness of winter.

_“The dead are layin’ in the ground, there’ll no more fighting be  
Come along, my love, we’ve a bairn, to set our lead hearts free  
And though we’ll grieve the ones we’ve lost, we’ll know our love is true  
And I know spring has come again as sure as I love–"_

The girl suddenly stops short, and lets out a long, terrified scream. Geralt’s eyes snap back to her, wondering what she has seen that could provoke so much terror.

Her eyes roll back in her head and her body is pulled unnaturally upright, as though a string were being tugged at from the top of her spine.

Geralt starts moving, shoving the crowd aside in his haste to get to her.

 _A possession of some kind,_ he thinks. He needs to get her away from the stage, and the panicking audience.

Her body is levitating now above the platform, and her screams grow louder. Her arms and legs are vibrating, and Geralt realises the spirit is trying to kill her from the inside.

Geralt curses under his breath. He gets as close as he can to the platform and casts the Sign of Yrden upon the stage. The girl screams again. Then, all at once, her body crumples to the ground. Geralt sees a wraith-like shadow escape her body, but it quickly dissolves into the air and escapes from his sight. His medallion calms, and Geralt knows the creature has fled.

“It’s the witcher!” screams someone beside him. “He’s slain the ghost!”

The crowd gives a mighty cheer, and he finds himself jostled about enthusiastically by those around him. He scrambles free and up onto the stage, where he sees the girl pushing herself up from the ground.

“What happened?” Geralt asks, and she bursts into tears.

“Oh – oh, thank you Master Witcher – it just crawled into me, like an ice bath it was, I felt it crawling right up my back, and I was in so much pain – and then you must have killed it, because here I am!” she sobs, and to Geralt’s chagrin she bounds up to him and embraces him in a tight hug. Geralt notices her hair smells of arenaria flowers.

“It isn’t slain,” Geralt replies shortly. “Just gone for now. It will return again. Any idea why a wraith would target you?”

She looks up at him with big, glassy eyes. “Oh no, sir. I ain’t done nothing, ’cept to have a good voice.” She pauses and bites her bottom lip, as though considering a great problem. “Maybe it was jealous?”

“Doubt it,” Geralt grunts. His eyes flicker towards the crowd, and he decides this is no place for a conversation – the wraith could be lurking just out of sight, ready to strike someone else.

“If you think of anything that could be helpful, let me know. I’m staying at the Rotted Hare.”

“Oh, of course!” she exclaims. “My husband’s family will pay you for your savin’ me, don’t worry!”

Geralt supposes it’s a nice sentiment, but frankly he would have rather have lost the coin and avoided the public spectacle. Already he can hear people crying out ‘Witcher! Witcher! White Wolf!’, when just an hour ago half of them would have been spitting at him from behind his back. Still, Jaskier is always saying his reputation could do with improving – if for nothing else, the ease of bargaining a higher price for his services.

 _Jaskier could have cleaned up with this lot_ , Geralt thinks irritably as he tries to navigate the crowd, pushing against them and ignoring their hollering in his ear. _Could have brought in ten times his usual coin._

He frees himself of the central square and paces around the surrounding blocks, waiting for his witcher senses or his medallion to pick up on anything supernatural. Wraiths and their ilk were always tied to a certain location, usually where they died – the central square was sure to have seen quite a few deaths in its time. Perhaps the wraith was a hanged criminal, the stage now used for festivities previously a platform for the condemned. Perhaps it was the victim of a fatal mugging. Whatever the case, it was curious that the townspeople had never mentioned a monster before. The haunting had taken place in a public venue, and usually similar incidents were the talk of the town. Yet Geralt had heard no news of such a spirit from the city alderman, nor pinned to a noticeboard, nor from any of the locals he had engaged in passing conversation. 

He waits until mid-afternoon, when the crowd has dispersed a little. Most people are heading towards their homes and taverns for their Sprouting Feast. The sun is beginning to set in the sky, and it paints the streets in a sweet warm colour, a strange contrast to the biting cold. Geralt retraces his steps back to the square, and finds most of the market stalls beginning to pack up, colourful banners and tents being folded neatly away.

Geralt works his way through the market row by row. He asks each shopkeeper he meets the same questions about the haunting. For the most part, however, his attempt to parse any valuable information from them are in vain.

“No sir, no idea about it – no murders in Gulet that I know of, not in this part of town…”

“That girl ain’t harmed a fly, I can tell you that much…”

“Ain’t seen nothing like it, not in all my years… I thought we’d be safe from those things in a big city like this!”

“Oh, Master Witcher! Would you mind making your mark on this toy sword for my boy?”

“The singer Mariannah? Oh, she’s a lovely lass, ain’t she? Pity about her brother, but perhaps the grief just makes her all the wiser, and her voice all the sweeter…”

This last one finally gives Geralt what he’s been looking for. “Her brother?” Geralt asks quickly. “He died?”

“Oh no, sir,” replies the little shopkeeper, pawing nervously at her apron. “S’pose I shouldn’t be saying such, but he got in a bit of trouble, and he left town a while ago.”

“What sort of trouble?” Geralt presses.

“Oh,” the shopkeeper stutters. “Well, you know. This and that. I mean, they’re just rumours,” she laughs nervously. “And we don’t like to talk about it, you know. We don’t like to gossip. And the sister’s just been married, see, so we don’t want to disturb her happiness either.”

Geralt thinks of Foltest, and Adda.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Is she perhaps with child?”

The shopkeeper blinks. “Oh, I – I don’t know–” she stammers. “You’d have to ask her! She’s not showing, if she is!”

“Hmm,” Geralt says tonelessly. He feels sometimes that if he were a woman, people might trust him more readily with pertinent information. On the other hand, most women seem to despise Yennefer.

“Is there anyone else you think might help me hunt down this spirit?”

The shopkeeper nods, almost violently enthusiastic. “Of course, you must talk to Xierra! Over in the purple tent by the fountain, with stars on the sides. She knows everything, you know. Real magic, not parlour tricks! She’ll help you, right as rain, just you see!”

Given the melodramatic performance earlier in the day, Geralt privately doubts that. However, he supposes it can’t hurt – as the wraith has given no signs of reappearing, he has nothing better to do than continue asking around.

He thanks the shopkeeper, and heads to the tent she had indicated. Strangely, it is located near the fountain he had rested near earlier in the day, and yet he had not noticed it at the time. The fabric of the tent seems expensive, and Geralt sees small crystals have been sewn or glued onto the fabric in clusters, creating a shimmering constellation. He wonders briefly why a self-proclaimed prophetess with so much wealth would be making a living in Gulet, of all places.

“Enter, Witcher,” says a voice from inside the tent. Geralt blinks, and ducks under the loosely strung canopy. Xierra is on the carpeted floor, cross-legged, in the same posture Geralt uses to meditate. Her eyes are closed, her hands gently pressed together in an arch. Geralt supposes as theatrics of fortune-tellers go, she has the part well-acted.

“I’ve been told you can answer my questions,” Geralt starts, awkwardly sitting down opposite the oracle.

She cracks open one eye, and regards him with an inscrutable look. “I suppose it depends on what questions you ask. Or contrariwise; it depends on what answers you seek. I could,” she says, opening her other eye and reaching for a teapot from the cupboard beside her, “answer any question you have, of course, but you might find the answers unsatisfactory. ‘I don’t know’, is an answer the same as any other. But I suspect that will not sit well with someone earthly like you, White Wolf.” 

“No,” Geralt says shortly. “I’ve had enough of roundabout nonsense from mages and their ilk for one lifetime.”

“Very well,” Xierra laughs, and Geralt notices how attractive she is now her face has been washed clean of blood. Gone is the commanding manner of the oracle; she has the quirked mouth of someone terribly amused with his existence, and the glint of good wit in her cavernous dark eyes. “Why don’t you ask a question, then, and we shall see how we go from there.”

Geralt hesitates. He knows what matter should occupy his thoughts, but he can’t help himself.

“Do you know where the Swallow has gone? The Lion Cub of Cintra?”

Xierra tilts her head. “You ask the hardest question first. I suspected as much, but – my answer will not make you like or trust me very much. And so I hoped for something different.”

She sighs, and draws two cups down from the cupboard. She pours a cup for each of them, and Geralt feels his teeth clench as she draws out the process. The cups aren’t steaming; the brew is likely cold. Odd, for a winter month. He wonders if it is chamomile again.

“She is not anywhere you can find her at this time,” Xierra says finally. “She has chosen a path to travel alone. You will find your way back to her, if and when Destiny decrees.”

“Fuck Destiny,” Geralt spits. The corner of Xierra’s mouth quirks a little higher. “I want to know if she’s alright.”

“She is not dead,” Xierra shrugs. “If she were, the world would be in even more disarray than it is now. That is all I know.”

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment, dizzy with relief. Perhaps this oracle was still a talented swindler – but in truth, Geralt feels as though this has just confirmed what his instinct already tells him. If Ciri were gone from him, he would know it. He feels the truth of that in his heart.

“Fine,” Geralt says after a moment. “Tell me what you know about the girl Mariannah, and the wraith. Was her brother murdered? Perhaps for loving his sister a little too closely?”

Xierra looks down at her tea. “I am not, despite what they say, all-knowing,” she says slowly. “But I can tell you that Mariannah certainly has a dark guilt about her. I would suspect the brother is indeed dead, or someone else she knows, and she feels it is her fault. Whether or not it _is_ her fault, I cannot say. I am quite nomadic, and only came into this town a month past. All I told you is due to noticing her peculiar aura.”

“You certainly seem quite popular with the people of Gulet, for someone who is new to the city,” Geralt says suspiciously.

Xierra sips at her cup and looks at him through dark eyelashes. “Winning people’s favour requires no great trickery. Wherever I go, I grow well-liked. People love me for reading their fortunes truly, until they hate me when their bad fortunes come true as well. They seem to fault me for warning them of it, and having no power to prevent it.”

She sighs, and sets down her cup. The tea leaves swirl rapidly around, as though tossed about by a great storm.

 _Odd,_ Geralt thinks again. He sips his own tea. His inference was correct – the drink is ice cold.

“Destiny cannot be prevented, of course. It can only be altered, so that the right things happen for the wrong reasons, or the wrong things happen for the right reasons.”

“So you get run out of town when people’s fortunes aren’t what they want,” Geralt summarises. “Why don’t you just pick a new job?”

Xierra chuckles. “I suppose I’m lazy. Or I like what I do. Or perhaps, because I am destined to do it – to be where I am right now, and set you on the paths you will take, simply because I told you to take them.”

“You haven’t told me to do anything.” Geralt says, annoyed. “You’ve only told me I can’t do anything for Ciri. And I don’t plan on listening to that, either.”

“You won’t understand yet,” Xierra muses. “Ask me another question.”

Geralt sighs. “Fine.” He thinks for a moment, and then knows what he wants to ask. “Was I always fated to be with the sorceress Yennefer, or did I force fate to bind me with her?”

“Fate,” replies the oracle, “Is sometimes what we choose it to be. Or; sometimes you will find yourself making a series of choices, entirely at random, and only when you look back you will find yourself thinking that it somehow drew a path right to the thing that matters. Or even; sometimes no matter how far you strain against fate in one direction, it snaps you back to where it wants you to be.”

Geralt glares at her. “I thought you promised no roundabout nonsense.”

She smiles, a cat-like grin. “Fair enough, Witcher. The answer to both is two-fold; both yes, and no, and no, and yes. Are you thus satisfied?”

“Not at all,” Geralt retorts. “If you’re going to waste my time, then I think I’m done here.” A shame, he thinks, as she was really rather pretty. He could certainly have passed a few hours with her and her tent, if only it were in a more secluded area, and she a little less canny. He gets up and makes for the tent opening, but is stopped by a gentle hand on his leg.

“You are not done yet, Geralt of Rivia,” the oracle says, the tone of imperiousness returning from her earlier performance. “You have not asked me the question that matters most.”

“I already asked about Ciri’s fate, and Yennefer’s,” Geralt says dismissively. “What could be more important to me than their fortunes?”

The oracle’ smile has gone, replaced by a serious intensity. “Why. Everyone else’s.”

She straightens her posture suddenly, rising up where she sits, and stares him down. “The prophecy told today was no cheap forgery. Death comes to the Continent, and you have a vital part to play in what’s to come.”

Geralt politely waits for her performance to finish. “Hm. Interesting. This tea, is it a local speciality? I can’t quite place the flavour.”

Her glare spikes ever sharper with irritation. “It’s leaves of the winter cherry. Hot water can cause the filaments to expel noxious poison, and so the drink is taken chilled.”

“Fascinating,” Geralt says.

“You mock Destiny, Witcher,” Xierra says warningly.

“Frequently,” Geralt replies. “And yet, no matter whether I respect it or curse it to its face, Destiny finds a way to fuck me. You’ll forgive that I don’t take much stock in your warning that I have a part to play in the future. I have found, to my regret, that I always seem to end up muddled in the affairs of kings, and wars, and decisions I would rather stay out of. Your prophecy, therefore, does not much alter my expectations.”

To his surprise, Xierra seems to accept this. “I admit, the nature of my craft is that the warnings are vague, and easily shifted,” she says. “On the other hand, prophecies can be too specific. In my distant youth, I met a man. He was a king, as wealthy as he was powerful, and said he would pay me a great sum to tell me his future, no matter the cost.”

 _She must use similar magic to the sorceresses,_ Geralt thinks absently, _for she looks far younger than she implies._

“I used great magics to divine his path, and the path of those around him. It took me a month to make sure my readings were correct. After a time, he came back into my tent with the promised sum. ‘Tell me my future’, he said. And so I told him that his newborn son and daughter would conspire against him, wed each other, and kill both him and his wife.”

She sighs. “Of course, the man thought he could thwart Destiny. He sent his son and daughter to opposite ends of the land, so that they would never meet. He went mad with paranoia, and spent his life chasing at shadows and killing any person in the palace who resembled his children. His wife, meanwhile, could not take the loss of her children, and surrendered to a great sleeping sickness.”

Geralt drinks the last of his tea, and finds the bottom unexpectedly sweet where it should be bitter. Now he is accustomed to the taste, he finds it quite pleasurable.

“The day came, of course, when the children returned to the palace. The king had made three mistakes, after hearing the prophecy – first, that he had sent them away separately. Second, that they never knew their birth parents. And third, that he sent them far enough that they fell into the hands of the kingdom’s enemies.”

Geralt sets down his cup next to hers. The two vessels clink softly as they touch.

“The neighbouring countries had decided to ally against the king, and against all odds both children had risen in the ranks of their respective armies. The two nations conducted negotiations of their alliance, and at the moot the two siblings encountered each other. Feeling an unexplained connection between them, they feel quite rapidly in love.”

She sighs again, and gazes wistfully at the empty cups. “More tea?” she asks.

“No, thank you,” Geralt says. “I assume the siblings helped to conquer the land of their birth?”

Xierra smiles wanly. “Such is the hand of Destiny. The united armies easily conquered the kingdom, and by the time they had finished the campaign the two siblings were the commanders of their respective forces. They launched an invasion of the palace, and so it was the two of them came face to face with their own father.”

She laughs, although her smile has no trace of humour in it. “Of course, upon seeing the face of his children and knowing death was near, the father saw his own folly. He begged for mercy, but they did not listen – for of course, who would listen to the ramblings of a man desperate to escape an execution?”

She reaches for the pitcher, and refills her own tea cup. The leaves swirl hypnotically, cast about by the incoming stream of water.

“And so the king was killed, and then, the mother, hearing the commotion, descended from her chambers. She came into the great hall with a dagger for protection, and saw her children standing over her husband’s body.”

“And so they killed her, fulfilling the prophecy,” Geralt concludes.

“Not quite,” Xierra says, her lips quirking up in a wry smile. “The queen was so horrified, she plunged her own dagger into her neck. But the prophecy was nonetheless fulfilled, and so you see how Destiny has a way of coming about. The river only runs one way, and no matter how firmly you stand upon the river bed, eventually you will tire and be swept away by the current.”

“It is a nice parable,” Geralt admits, “but it has no bearing on my own choices. Whether or not I am Destiny’s pawn, I will do what I think is right, and hang the consequences.”

“That attitude makes you far wiser than the king,” Xierra comments. “However, you would do well to listen to the prophecies, Geralt of Rivia. For there are two ways to face a fate you do not like; head on, where you will be crushed by the weight of the bull as it runs at you. Or, you may swing and mount the bull, and steer it in a direction you like.”

“I thought you said Destiny could not be altered,” Geralt says, tilting his chin down and directing a cynical look towards her.

“Destiny cannot be altered,” Xierra says. “But prophecy might be fulfilled in many ways. For example, perhaps the king should have kept his children close, and instructed them both to kill their parents when they believed their suffering from illness or death could not be bested. It is not an ideal solution, and may not have worked to prevent tragedy at all. But if the siblings had not left the kingdom, perhaps the alliance of the neighbouring countries would not have happened, perhaps the invasion would have failed, perhaps many lives would have been saved. Or perhaps Destiny always planned for the exact sequence of events, beginning with him hearing my prophecy. It is impossible to peer into alternate realities and judge one better than another; the ripple effect of each single choice can cascade in ways a mortal mind cannot fathom.”

“Yet, for all that you have said,” Geralt counters, “you have not told me anything of use, except that I am to play a part in some great calamity – for good or for ill.”

Xierra sips at her tea, and hesitates. “When I came to the Continent,” she says, “I read many, many books. It was a good way to learn your language, and also to see how other prophets had envisioned the future. If two oracles see the same tree and describe it differently, it becomes easier to narrow down what type of tree it may be. Or, it should, although I admit often it is difficult to discern the writings of old, and even harder to know whether or not a prophecy is a fabrication.”

She takes another gulp of tea, and seems to rest it on her tongue for a moment before swallowing. “These past few years, something strange has happened,” she says. “The pull of Destiny has grown strained. Objects are colliding in ways I could never have foreseen, and even the words of the prophets I trust have proven false. It is as though something is pulling at the thread of the tapestry, slowly unspooling it from where it hangs.”

She pauses yet again, searching for the right words.

“It is – worrying,” she says, biting her lip. “At first, I questioned my own abilities, but then I attempted to divine the future with as much vigour as I had once shown the king of that distant land. And no matter what method I used for divination, all the signs were the same. In the tea leaves, in the stars, in the cards. Again and again, I saw these three things; death, darkness, and the setting of the sun. With increasing frequency, I saw these signs even when searching the palms of giggling wives. I saw them in the guts of sacrificed animals and in the dreams that visit me at night. A warning, of a great end to everything.”

“That sounds rather dramatic, you must admit,” Geralt says slowly. “Rarely do things end permanently – they just take on new forms. Countries merge into each other, kings are replaced, people become spirits, or whatever spirits become after they pass on.”

“Yes,” the oracle agrees. “It is dramatic, and yet if you had read the signs, you would panic as I do. Moreover, it matches an old legend, an Elven song that comes from the Seidhe who first settled the land.”

Her eyes glaze over as though recalling a distant memory, and she chants softly.

“ _In Imbaelk, the stars will fall. In Birke, smoke fills the skies.  
In Belleteyn the fields will fail. In Blathe, the seas will rise.  
In Feainn the storms will come. In Lammas, plague will spread.  
In Velen, the mountains will roar. In Saovine, rivers run red._

 _And last, in Yule, the flame of life shall all at once give out,  
And the earth shall be burdened with souls of the devout.  
And the gods shall point the way towards the setting sun,  
And darkness will consume them all, until the song is done._”

Geralt shivers a little as she delivers this speech, but it sparks something in his memory. “I’ve heard that before somewhere. It’s the old elvish legend of the apocalypse. They think the world will end in a great judgement, just as the people of Skellige believe in the great battle of Ragh nar Roog. It is a fable to bookend the myths of creation, no more than that.”

“You speak of Tedd Deireádh, the Time of End,” Xierra remarks. “I do not believe it to be a fable. For every people to have some element of it in their culture, it seems to me that there must be some element of truth to it.”

“Even if there were,” Geralt says haltingly. “You think the world will come to an end with a great rush? That some incredible evil shall consume the land from the northern frosts to the great southern seas?

“Yes,” breathes the oracle. “Yes, I do. Suddenly, the signs have aligned. The Twilight of the World will come to pass this year. There is no mistaking it.”

Geralt sighs. “Listen, if I had a copper for every time I heard some town crier or priest herald some impending doom–”

“I did not expect you to listen now,” Xierra interrupts. “But I have fulfilled my purpose by reminding you of the prophecy. And so, now you may take your leave if you wish, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt feels annoyed with the oracle, as she has somehow half convinced him of her own power while still only being able to give him vague hints and ominous verses of existing poetry.

“If,” Geralt says. “If I believed you, are you able to divine the paths one could take to – grab the bull by the horns and mount it, so to speak?”

She considers this. “I will do a reading of your dreams,” she says. “They are more specific with their answers than most. It will cost you, though,” she adds, winking at him playfully, in stark contrast to her previous solemnity.

“End of the world on the line, and you barter for the cost of one reading?” Geralt says drily. “Perhaps this was all a long con to make me agree to such.”

“Even prophets must eat,” Xierra says, sniggering softly as she rummages in her shelves for a small box. “Ah, here it is. And – in any case, perhaps it is wrong of me to have treated you with such free service until now. The worries of a girl who kissed the butcher’s boy instead of the hatter’s apprentice should not outweigh the concerns of a witcher, for your souls are worth the same.”

“If you say so,” Geralt replies mulishly.

Xierra smiles at that. “Over there,” she says, pointing to some cushions and patterned throws nestled against a corner of the tent. “Lay down and close your eyes. I will light this incense, to send you into a short sleep. Calm your mind as you rest, and let your heart focus on seeking help. What will help you in the future, who will aid your cause?”

Geralt does as she instructs, and almost immediately the smell of a flowery incense overwhelms his nose. The air feels warm, and it is getting harder to breathe – he has half a thought to wonder if she has poisoned him, and this was all an elaborate trick, before he is falling–

_He stands aboard a ship, the occasional spray of saltwater brisk against his face. He can smell more than just the sea and hear more than just the creaking of the ship’s hull; there is the scent of lilac and gooseberries in the air. He would know that smell anywhere. Underneath the crowing of gulls, too, and the lapping of waves, there is the strummed melody of a stringed instrument._

_Suddenly, he finds himself falling overboard, thrust into the sea without warning. The water rushes up to meet him, but instead of bracing wetness, instead he is falling deeper and deeper in a white, shining space. When his eyes adjust, he can see glistening, semi-opaque surfaces – as though he is inside a great glass bottle, or a shard of diamond. Yellow dust falls with him, and he looks down to see a mass of shimmering sand. He hits the ocean floor, such that it is, only to find seaweed growing up around him, tangling him, binding him – until the seaweed morphs into long strands of grass, blowing gently in a breeze._

_He looks around, and hears a woman’s laughter. It sounds like the ringing of small bells, full of warmth and light. A figure is glowing in the grass – he reaches out to it, but almost immediately he is thrown back again. The woman has turned into a man he does not know, biting and hissing at him, and he reaches for a rock, a sword, anything to fight back with. But the soil and grass underneath him have shifted again, into dark clouds. He picks up a handful of the grey mass, marvelling at it. Suddenly, the clouds explode with sparks of lightning, sending pain racing through his hand and jolting him –_

Awake. He bolts up, heaving with exertion, only to belatedly realise where he is. His right hand still stings, and Geralt strips off his glove – but there is no mark or sore that would indicate it had ever been hurt.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts. “That was more nauseating than going through a magic portal.”

“Yes, the experience can be quite alarming,” Xierra says calmly. “Although I must admit, your mind seemed particularly wont to metaphor. Is that usual, for a witcher?”

“No.” Geralt almost laughs. “Not at all.” _Perhaps Jaskier has been a terrible influence on my subconscious,_ he thinks.

“Well,” Xierra says, worrying at her lip again. “I am ashamed to report your dreams were incredibly difficult to parse. The most concrete thing I could say is that you should seek help in the sea, the land, and the sky. That much seemed clear – but beyond that, I could not say.”

Geralt stares at her. “All that, and this is the best advice you can give?”

Xierra seems angrier with herself than Geralt is. “I _can_ usually see more, but it is as though some greater magic is interfering. Or that this is yet another manifestation of the phenomenon I was talking about, where the fates are warped towards a shifting tide. I could not say. Perhaps the meaning will become clear to you in time. You do still have to pay me, though,” she adds. “I did my best, and the incense is not cheap.”

Geralt growls lowly but digs out his coin purse.

“Thirty ducats,” Xierra says. When she sees Geralt’s incredulous look, she raises her hand in a careless gesture of helplessness. “What? I do not arrange the custom fees on imports from across the ocean.”

 _I’d better collect on Mariannah’s money tonight,_ Geralt thinks to himself irritably.

“I cannot say I recommend your service,” Geralt says, as he stands to leave, “and I hope, for your sake and mine, that your omen-reading is as ineffective as your oneiromancy.”

Xierra simply watches him, with the same discomfortingly unperturbed air that the priestesses of Melitele held.

Geralt nods to her. “Having said that – I hope you are not run out of town too soon.”

The oracle smiles, as though amused by a favourite child. “Good luck, White Wolf,” she replies softly in farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of the king is, of course, based on the tragedy of Oedipus.


	3. Imbaelk - Part Two

The visit to the oracle distracted him, but Geralt still needs to divine what happened between Mariannah and her brother. The witcher knows from experience that the only people willing to give up such information to a stranger will be drunks – and with that in mind, he decides to make his way back downhill, to the darker, grimier part of town. A few grunted directions from passers-by leads him to the Rotted Hare.

He knows he is in the right place when he meets three men vomiting violently against a small sewer drain.

“Evening,” he says politely. One of them gives a great dry heave by way of reply, and Geralt hastily moves past them.

Geralt enters the tavern, and is not surprised to see the floorboards heaving with the weight of all the revellers from the Sprouting festivities. He talks to the innkeeper, with the mind to arrange for a room upstairs – but is promptly informed by the hassled woman that he will share a communal floor with thirty or so others.

Geralt sighs. Not his favourite way to spend an evening, and he doubts he will be getting much rest. Still, the only night disturbances are likely to be drunks tripping over him and hacking up their last meal. It is better sleeping in the streets, and risk being attacked by thieves or guards, or frostbitten from cold.

“Fine,” Geralt mutters, handing over five ducats for the honour of a dirty pallet.

With that business finished, Geralt starts to make his interrogations of the tavern patrons. He notices that the establishment must have run out of tankards at some point in the evening –many people are drinking from chipped tea cups and soup bowls.

It does not take him long to find some women who are willing to speak with him, excitable gossips who pontificate with extreme expressions, made all the more exaggerated by their heavily made-up faces.

“Mariannah’s brother? Oh, we can’t talk about that,” says one.

“Oh, terrible business,” agrees another. “We can’t possibly talk about it.”

“But you _know_ what they say,” says a third. “Thank god she saved her husband from that nonsense.” The other two nod violently in agreement.

Geralt frowns. “I’m not following.”

“Oh, we really shouldn’t say,” says the first. “They’re just rumours, really–”

“My sister says she _saw_ them at it,” hisses the third. “At the festival last year, holding hands and everything.”

“It’s not right,” sniffs the second.

Geralt blinks. He’s starting to get an idea of what happened. “When was the last time you saw the brother? Before he left town, I mean.”

The three women ponder this. “Can’t rightly say,” says the second. “Think perhaps it was round this time last year, now ye mention it.”

Geralt nods. “One more question,” he says. “Where might I find the house of Mariannah and her husband? I was a friend of her brother once; I’d like to pay my respects.”

“A friend?” two of the women sneer at the same time. The third frowns at him. “You don’t look the type, Witcher. But I suppose you’re unnatural to begin with. Such a shame.”

“Well, if you want to visit, they’re halfway up Stoneridge Street, the one that starts to the right of the chapel,” says the first.

“Thank you,” says Geralt, directing his gratitude more to the first woman than to the others. He leaves the tavern quickly, and makes his way back towards the chapel they had mentioned. He recalls it in sitting a small square laden with flowers, about halfway up the city incline. The sun has set properly now, and the chill is starting to set in. Geralt is again grateful for the five ducats worth of walls he has to shield him overnight. A room full of warm bodies will not be the worst place to spend his sleeping hours.

He follows the path the woman had indicated, and finds Stoneridge Street curves out onto the hillside to reveal a beautiful vista of the countryside. The light of dusk illuminates miles of neat fields and hedges, and Geralt pauses to admire the view. For all the darkness and grit and blood the world holds, occasionally the witcher is taken aback by a moment of fleeting, sublime beauty.

Still, it is only a moment – he has a job to do.

He knocks on a dwelling at random, asking for Mariannah of Gulet. The timid woman inside points four doors up the street, and Geralt thanks her. She closes the door on him immediately, and he sees her go to the front window and watch him with beady eyes. Ignoring her, he strides to the house she pointed towards and knocks on the door.

A man answers the door, weary-looking. His face is tired and forlorn, but despite that he is exceptionally handsome. Geralt can tell that if he were to laugh, he would be irresistible to women.

“I’m looking for Mariannah of Gulet,” Geralt starts. “Are you her husband?”

“Yes,” replies the man nervously. “I’m Eddewin. You can call me Ned. But Mariannah isn’t home yet, she’ll be out carousing for a while. I wouldn’t bother waiting here, she might–” He falters, and then tries again. “She might not come home tonight.”

 _Interesting,_ Geralt thinks. “You’re not one for the Sprouting festival, I take it?”

The man shakes his head. “Too many bad – it’s just too much, for me, I mean. Too many people, too much noise.”

“And yet your wife was a key attraction of the day’s events,” Geralt muses. “A husband would usually support his wife in such a thing.”

“I’ve seen her sing before,” Eddewin says dully. “It’s no great revelation to me.”

 _No love lost here then,_ Geralt thinks. “May I come in?” he asks. “It’s a cold night.”

He sees a flicker of annoyance on Eddewin’s face, the first sign of any hostile emotion, but it’s quickly ironed out by adherence to propriety. “Of course. My apologies.” He closes the door behind Geralt as the witcher enters, and Geralt immediately feels a little warmer. Candlelight illuminates a modest abode, one that is crammed full with an assortment of odd and exquisite objects stacked on top of each other. Dirty pots are stacked on top of leather-bound books; silver utensils are piled on top of ornamental chests. Several rugs lay rolled up in a corner, collecting dust and cobwebs. Mariannah is clearly no great homemaker.

“Forgive the mess,” Eddewin says shortly. “We never had a chance to sort out the wedding gifts properly.”

“Fine gifts for a humble home,” Geralt remarks, eyeing a delicate white and blue patterned bowl perched on top of the fireplace. He recognises the pattern; such a piece would have come from Ofir, beyond the seas, and cost a pretty penny.

“My family lived at the top of the hill,” Eddewin replies morosely. “They were quite generous in their gifts, perhaps to dull the edge of my moving halfway down it.”

 _So,_ Geralt thinks. _A rich husband marries below his station._ Such a match was unusual enough that he thinks he has found his answer.

“Hmm. A love marriage then?”

The man huffs with surprise, and shakes his head. “Something like that. You said you were here for Mariannah? Might I ask how you know her?”

“Her brother,” Geralt says. Eddewin’s face goes rigid, and loses a little colour.

_I’ve hit the mark here, then._

“Oh,” Eddewin says, his voice an octave higher than before. “You knew – you knew – you knew Theowynn.”

 _‘Knew’, not ‘know’._ “In passing,” Geralt continues cautiously. “I heard he disappeared from here a year ago. I was wondering if you knew where he might have gone.”

Eddewin laughs nervously. “Odd,” he says suddenly, folding his arms. “Theo never mentioned knowing a witcher, and I – he told me most things. I’m wondering then, if you’re really here to look for a friend of yours, or if you’ve just been paid to interfere with things that don’t concern you.” There is the note of hostility again, slim but clear as a knife pressed against one’s throat.

“I can guarantee you I’m looking for Theowynn.” Geralt raises his hands a little, tries to show Eddewin that he isn’t looking for a fight. “I never said he was a friend of mine. In truth, I believe he might be dead.”

Eddewin’s face is white as snow. “No,” he says hoarsely. “She wouldn’t.”

 _There it is,_ Geralt thinks a little remorsefully. Despite the thrill of his deductions being proved true, delivering ill news to victims of evil is never gratifying.

“A recent wedding,” Geralt says slowly. “A rich man hanging around a family below his standing. You must have fallen quite terribly in love, with Mariannah. I imagine the sudden departure of her brother brought you two together. Loss often ignites passion, in a perverse way.”

“Perverse indeed,” Eddewin whispers. “But any man would be lucky to have such a beautiful woman. Such a lovely voice.”

“Of course,” Geralt says smoothly. “But if I can be honest – I have often found beauty is the best place for darkness go unnoticed.”

The man considers him, the lines on his face more apparent than ever. “You’ll find her in Lord Terian’s house. She’s taken him as a lover, as she has found me wanting, despite the handsomeness she wed me for. Perhaps she also thought loss would ignite passion, but she has been – disappointed, in that regard.” He laughs derisively, and a bitter snarl mottles his handsome features.

“Thank you,” Geralt says. “And, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Eddewin’s face is suddenly cold.

“If you don’t kill her, Witcher,” he says, “I will.”

Geralt nods, and turns to leave. A stray thought tugs at him, and he finds himself turning back to the man despite himself.

“Was it worth it?”

He does not need to clarify his statement. Eddewin knows exactly what he means.

“In exchange for his life?” he says incredulously. “Never. But–” he starts, and his eyes turn bold, his posture straight and proud. “But, to know who I really am, what I am capable of feeling? Always.”

Eddewin’s defiant expression holds strong against the wavering candlelight, and Geralt finds himself feeling some small glimmer of respect.

* * *

Geralt expected the celebrations of the Sprouting to die down by nightfall, but instead it appears the masses have recongregated in the main square. Gone is the platform from midday; in its place a tall bonfire is burning brightly at the base of the obelisk. People are dancing and singing and cheering around the blaze, looking like so many insects fluttering around a lamp. Some people seem to be letting off firecrackers; they spark and smoke in little bursts around the darkness, and one goes off near Geralt’s face, temporarily blinding him.

“Sorry sir,” slurs a drunken man, bumping into him.

“Do you know where to find the house of Lord Terian?” Geralt asks.

“Aye, ‘tis the large white manor at the square’s edge,” the man says, swaying on his feet. “Good fortune to you, sir on this Sprouting! May your fields and women be fertile and bountiful in their produce!”

A flash of icy violet appears his mind’s eye, but Geralt dismisses the memory immediately. “Thank you.”

He makes his way to the indicated manor. It is a fine residence indeed, possibly the crowning glory of the city. The enormous, shining villa is set within marble columns, which frame neat windows. Many of the frames appear to have been inlaid with stained glass, and Geralt is impressed that somehow no vagabonds have smashed through the windows with rocks.

 _Or,_ he thinks, _perhaps they have, and this family is merely rich enough to mend any damage._

Another reason may well be that the residence is patrolled by private guards, who walk up and down the perimeter with a brisk, authoritative pace. When Geralt gets within five yards of the front entrance steps, he is approached by a pair of them, who indicate for him to stop.

“Halt, sir,” says one, “Lord Terian’s Sprouting Feast requires an invite.”

“I have no invite,” Geralt replies. “I’m here on witcher business.”

“You’ll need an invite, sir, and even if you had one, I’m likely not to admit you in that unfashionable black armour,” says the second.

Geralt grunts in annoyance. _Right,_ he thinks. _Back entrance, then._

He walks around the manor block, and finds an unguarded alleyway behind it. The windows have ledges underneath them at each level; a few are laden with potted plants. It is an easy task for Geralt to climb the back wall, using odd bricks and window ledges as his purchases. He taps at a couple of darkened windows but finds them unmoving. On the third floor, he finally finds one that swings open, and hoists himself through it.

 _Fortunately the wealthy always have propensity to build windows with opening hinges,_ he thinks. The feature has been a great asset to more than one infiltration and narrow escape.

The interior reveals itself to be an empty master bedroom; the silken bed hangings are embroidered with meticulous care and great skill. The room is large, and contains several lavishly decorated chests – if he had more time, Geralt might peruse their contents out of interest. However, he is aware that every moment in this room is a moment he might be discovered under suspicious circumstances, and so he walks from the room and along the corridors. As he passes more doors and impressive portraits of what he assumes are Terian’s ancestors, he listens closely for conversation.

He hears a woman moaning from down the floor below, and so descends the stairs to investigate. A servant passes him with a curious look, but otherwise makes no remark. The moans are clearly sexual in nature; Geralt coughs outside the door from which the sounds originate, and knocks twice. He hears the voices inside cut off, and a woman opens the door, as nude as the day she was born.

“What,” she says blearily.

“I’m looking for Mariannah of Gulet,” Geralt replies. “Are you she?”

The woman sneers. “You think I’d let that street whore into my bedrooms? She’ll be in the cellars with my husband, fucking on the cold stone. Now leave me in peace. And if you have any reason to kill her, Witcher, let me know. I’ll give you a token of my gratitude.”

“I do not hope to have reason to spill blood on your grounds, madam,” Geralt says, keeping his eyes squarely on hers in courtesy to her nakedness.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” she snarks, closing the door on him in dismissal. It takes perhaps seconds for the moaning to resume.

Geralt descends the stairs again, and makes his way to the belly of the building. More partygoers pass him by, yet none make comment on his presence – it seems to Geralt there are simply too many people here for anyone to pay any mind to him. He reaches the cellars, where servants are flitting up and down the stairs with large bottles in tow. The task of finding his quarry is more difficult than Geralt initially imagined; the cellars are so vast that he suspects they take up at least half of the land underneath the main square.

“Have you seen Lord Terian?” he asks a passing server. She rolls his eyes at him and points vaguely towards the darkness, into the depths of the vault. He follows her directions, moving further into the cellar, his eyes adjusting with ease to the darkness. He does not have to walk too far before hearing the tell-tale sounds of fornication.

Geralt almost recognises Mariannah’s singing voice in her pitched, drawn-out moans. Lord Terian is louder still, grunting affirmations in a deep growl. He finds them on the floor, as Lady Terian had told him he would; the lord is thrusting into the red-headed singer with great enthusiasm, and she is scrabbling at the tiles for purchase.

“Lord Terian, I presume,” Geralt says cooly. The man in question turns his head around to look at Geralt, but otherwise continues his rhythm without pause.

“What do you want, Witcher,” he hisses. “If you’ve come to blackmail me, my wife already knows about this. Begone.”

“I’m not here for you,” Geralt says shortly. “I’d like to talk to Mariannah. About her brother.”

“Get off, Rodger,” Mariannah hisses, and shoves the lord away. He grunts with annoyance, and turns around to tuck himself back into his trousers. “What do you want with me? I ain’t got no idea where Theo went.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Geralt says mildly. “In fact, I believe you killed your brother when you found him fucking another man.”

Mariannah’s face turns a blotchy puce. “Oh, fuck off. You ain’t got no proof he’s dead.”

“I think the wraith that possessed you today is all the proof I need,” Geralt starts.

“Get out of my house, Witcher, or I’ll have you arrested,” barks Lord Terian. He reminds Geralt of a small, yipping house dog.

“If you do,” Geralt continues calmly, “I’ll have no trouble informing the city guard that you helped Mariannah to murder her brother, and that his corpse is buried underneath your property. Since everyone in this household seems to know about your affair, I don’t believe there will be a shortage of character witnesses to link you to the crime.”

“He was a filthy daffodil,” spits the lord. “A fucking cocksucker.”

“Well, that answers that question,” Geralt says in a bored tone. “Show me where you buried the body.”

“How d’you know all this?” Mariannah says with a terrified voice. “You gonna report us to the guard? They ain’t gonna side with you; everyone knew what Theo was.”

“Wraiths are usually tied to where they died,” Geralt mutters. “Got your lover to help you kill him. Couldn’t marry him,” he says, looking at Terian, “So you blackmailed your brother’s lover into marrying you and got a good fortune in the process.”

“That don’t explain how you knew we buried him here!” Mariannah shrieks, panicked.

“I expect you brought him down here where nobody was around, and killed him. Hard to move a body out unnoticed in a crowded city. Better to just bury it where it was.” Geralt notices movement out of the corner of his eye, where Lord Terian is reaching for a knife.

“Such a pity, Witcher,” Lord Terian says maliciously. “Now we know how you found it out, we can just burn your body along with his.”

Geralt dodges the Lord’s clumsy attack with ease, and breaks his arm as he passes by. Lord Terian goes down screaming, and Geralt kicks him swiftly into unconsciousness.

“Now,” Geralt says with a note of menace. “Are you going to lead me to Theowynn’s body, or do I have to make you?”

“No, sir,” Mariannah says miserably, immediately cowed. “It’s down that way,” she says, gesturing towards the back of the cellar. “This used to be a crypt, see, so we just put his body in with one of the other coffins. We thought the wine would cover up the smell, and so it did. If it weren’t for him coming back to haunt me, nobody would ever have known the difference.”

“You think killing your own brother is something you can just conceal?” Geralt asks as they walk, incredulous.

“He was a – a – _aberration_.” Mariannah replies, but her voice is unsure. “It’s an evil act. A crime. Better to kill him than let our family be tainted.”

“The evil done here was fratricide,” Geralt snaps. Mariannah starts to sob, although Geralt suspects it is with fear of punishment rather than regret or repentance.

Geralt opens the stone lid of the coffin she has indicated. Inside, a decomposed corpse in colourful clothing lies atop an ancient skeleton. Geralt blocks his nose from the awful stench of it, and casts the Sign of Igni, burning the body with a blast of fire.

His medallion vibrates on his chest, and he hears Mariannah scream behind him. He turns, just in time to see her eyes roll back in her head. Her arms reach out suddenly and grab at Geralt’s own.

Geralt struggles to free himself from Mariannah’s iron grip, but falters when the girl suddenly goes limp, as though she has fallen asleep. Her eyes, however, are still white and unseeing. She opens her mouth and speaks in an awful, echoing voice.

“ _Witcher,_ ” rasps the girl. “ _Tell Ned to leave this place, and find somewhere he can be free. Tell him I love him, with all my heart. I will go peacefully._ ”

Geralt is taken aback, but nods. “It will be done,” he says, hoping his tone conveys his sincerity.

Mariannah screams once more, and her body collapses. The spirit vanishes in a burst of white light, and the witcher knows his job has been completed.

He drags the coffin lid back into place as the fire burns out, wishing he could give Theowynn a better grave. Mariannah starts sobbing again from the ground beside him.

“Please,” she cries. “Don’t kill me, sir. I was just defending my family, punishing evil in the world, and I think I’m with child, besides. You can’t kill me, sir. The child–”

“You’re pathetic,” Geralt says coldly. “I won’t kill you. It isn’t worth the effort. But I’ll let Lady Terian know what you’ve done, and have her do with that information what she will. I’m sure _she’d_ be interested in pursuing justice to the fullest extent she can.”

He leaves the girl where she lies, sobbing to herself on the cold flagstone floor.

* * *

Geralt uses the front door to leave the manor, much to the annoyance and confusion of the guards.

“Got an invite after all,” he says shrugging. “Lady Terian is a huge fan of mine, as it happens.”

“I’ll bet, looking like that,” mutters one of the guards, while the other shoves him. He walks into the heart of the square, drawn to the heat of the bonfire, when he hears from behind him–

“Witcher!” exclaims a startled voice. “Is it done?”

He turns to find Eddewin behind him, holding a woollen cap nervously in hand.

“I see you braved the noisy streets full of people,” Geralt remarks wryly. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. Your wife lives, although she has incurred the wrath of the Lady of House Terian. I do not know, therefore, how much longer she shall.”

Eddewin laughs nervously. “And Theowynn–”

“Dead,” Geralt says gently. “I’m sorry. They killed him and buried him underneath Terian’s own house.”

Eddewin closes his eyes and raises his face to the sky. For a moment, they both stand still as the noise and pageantry of the festival orbits around them. Geralt sees the reflection of a tear running down his cheek, glistening in the light of the bonfire.

“I suspected,” he says, so quietly Geralt might not have heard him were it not for his witcher senses. “I suspected, but I thought she could not be capable of such a thing. I hoped – I hoped for his return.”

He bows his head and clasps Geralt’s hands in his own. “Thank you, for bringing me peace. How much should I pay you for this service?”

“Nothing,” Geralt says abruptly. “Take what money you have, and fulfil Theowynn’s dying wish.”

“His wish?” Eddewin says, stricken.

“He asked me to tell you that he loves you. With all his heart,” Geralt says clumsily. “And – and to leave this place, and find somewhere you can be free.”

Eddewin’s face crumples, and Geralt finds himself patting the man awkwardly on the shoulder as he weeps without restraint, much as his wife had done not an hour earlier.

“Thank you,” he stammers between heaving breaths. “You have been kinder to me than I ever thought possible.” He pauses, taking a minute to recompose himself.

“It’s no trouble,” Geralt says. “I should be going. Take care.”

He starts to make his way back to the tavern, when Eddewin shouts “Wait!”

Geralt turns around, and finds the man staring at him with a strange look upon his face. “I – you. Would you like to um,” he says nervously, “get a drink with me?”

Geralt feels his face flush, an occurrence so rare it takes him aback. “No, that’s–”

“I’m sorry,” Eddewin cuts in immediately, a look of horror dawning on his face. “I just thought, maybe, since you had been kind to me–”

 _In this lighting, he resembles Jaskier_ , Geralt thinks, apropos of nothing. The thought deepens his blush, and he shakes himself. He hasn’t rested well, he has been alone for too long, and now memories of his friends are haunting him at every step. It has been a long winter.

“No,” Geralt says. “It’s just – the kindness you speak of. I – I know what it is, to be an aberration.”

“Oh,” says the man quietly. “Of course. I’m sorry, for what you have suffered. At least I can hide what I am.”

“I hope you find a place you don’t have to,” Geralt replies, and he sees the man’s eyes start to glisten once more. Feeling awkward, he nods to him abruptly. “Ah. Farewell, then.”

“Farewell, Witcher,” replies Eddewin. “I hope that one day, you also find peace.”

* * *

Geralt sleeps surprisingly well that night, despite his crowded quarters. As he had hypothesised, the room full of sleeping men is so well insulated that he finally evades the winter chill that had settled into his bones. In the morning he is surprisingly well rested, and in reasonably good cheer when he descends to breakfast. Some of the guests of the inn whisper around him, but for once the whispers are reverent rather than suspicious.

All in all, Geralt thoroughly enjoys his rye bread and cheese, even if the cheese has begun to develop a slightly green tinge on the corners. He downs the meal with some fresh milk, and even goes so far as to smile slightly at the women giggling at him from another table.

With breakfast done, he leaves the inn and heads into the smithing district. He knows he has arrived when he hears the sounds of hammers on anvils. The noise creates a discordant sort of rhythm and melody above the bustle of the morning street traffic, one that seems to send many passers-by wincing and clutching a hand to their head.

He supposes he is fortunate he was too busy to indulge in drink last night.

The smithing guild is situated right in the middle of several small forges, a towering building of peculiar proportions. Where Lord Terian’s manor had been clean and orderly as a Nilfgaardian soldier, the smithing guild puts Geralt in mind of a Skelligan warrior – brutal, wild, and not without a great deal of character. Miniature towers jut out from the building at odd angles, and the building itself is formed of a variety of odd and uncorrelated shapes, cobbled together like the skin of an ifrit. Above the doorway, a series of empty nooks mark the place where jewels had once been placed – removed at some point, stolen or sold on for cash. The most peculiar features are the copper gargoyle statues that peer out from various crevices, greened with age. Geralt knows they cannot be real gargoyles – those are made of granite or marble – yet the resemblance is uncanny.

He speaks to the doorman, who upon seeing him bends very low to the ground in a clunky bow. “I heard you slayed a great demon yesterday!” the young man chirps, grinning at Geralt widely as his head bobs back up again. His face is so thoroughly pock-marked, it is hard to find a clear patch of skin on it.

Geralt doesn’t bother to correct him. “Do you know where I can find the guild master who runs the main steelworks outside Gulet?”

“Of course, Master Witcher!” the boy exclaims. “Why, he’s just gone inside not twenty minutes ago! Walked in with a great lumbering man who looked not unlike yourself, only without the white hair!”

That gives Geralt pause. _Another witcher is here?_

“Thanks,” he says, and strides inside the building. The interior atrium is even more of an eyesore than the outside, with great spikes of metal piercing into the central columns in a scattered, haphazard way. Gold and silver and copper colours sparkle from every angle, but the overall effect is distracting rather than magnificent.

At the end of the wide hall, he sees a familiar figure standing next to a man in a metallic robe. His face is marked with scars, but the shadow of his once-handsome features is still evident in his profile.

“Eskel!” he shouts warmly.

“Bloody hell,” the other witcher grins. “Geralt, you old sod. I suppose you’ve gone and snatched my contract out from under me.”

“Defeated the ifrit night before last,” Geralt confirms. “’Course, the whole town just blew up with celebrating Imbaelk, so I didn’t bother collecting on the contract until today.”

“Ah, too busy enjoying the women and wine as usual, you rogue,” Eskel says amiably. “How little things have changed from our youth.”

“It’s good to see you Eskel,” Geralt says, embracing his old friend.

“Er,” says the other man, who Geralt takes to be the guild master. “I suppose this means I am paying you and not he?” He blinks rapidly, as though he fears he is suddenly seeing double.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Geralt says, smirking. “Here is the trophy that proves my completion of the task. Seven hundred ducats, I believe it was.”

The guild master sighs as he examines the black shard. “That was the promised price, yes,” he mutters. “As long as I don’t have to pay both of you.” He waves at the doorman, who leaps to attention.

“Oi, Jero! Tell the boys to get back to the foundry. The damn demon’s gone. Tell them they can get back off their arses fixing up what it broke and making up lost profits!”

“Oh, they won’t like that, sir,” the boy says nervously, but he ducks away nonetheless.

To Geralt he says shrewdly, “I suppose you travel a lot, witcher. No trouble to you converting a gold bar to coin when your currency changes so much regardless.”

“I’d prefer the coin,” Geralt replies. “But if gold is what you have at the moment, I will take it.”

“Good, good,” the man says. “Afraid we’re a bit low on liquidity at the moment, between the demon stopping work for a week and the Nilfgaardian laws cocking up our trading.” He leans in, whispering conspiratorially to both of them. “ _Apparently_ the guilds have to follow the Empire’s guild regulations, or we’ll be disbanded and our assets seized. The nerve! We operated just fine before they came along, I don’t see why they can’t butt out of our business.”

He leans back again. “Regardless, I’ll run and get the payment for you. Thank you, Witcher, for ridding us of the beast. I lost five good men to that thing, not to _mention_ the profits we’ve lost.” He shakes his head and scurries away into the depths of the building, cloak shimmering in the light as he goes.

“Really,” Eskel says fondly. “I should have expected you’d have already finished the contract. You were just like this at Kaer Morhen, always beating me at every race. Just when I thought I had the victory, you’d put on this burst of speed and sprint out in front of me to the finish line.”

“Yes, and in exchange you bested me at most everything we studied,” Geralt replies. “And all your hard-earned knowledge meant you likely wouldn’t have to do as much running in the first place.”

“Ah, perhaps,” Eskel says, grinning. “I can’t believe you’re here. You fled from Kaer Morhen weeks earlier than usual, before the ice had even receded from the roads. Every year you’re flightier – I worry this next year we will not see you at all.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies noncommittally. The first year after she vanished, he asked Vesemir and Eskel for all their thoughts on Ciri’s disappearance. Where she could be, how he could locate her. What spells he might ask Yennefer to try, what priestesses and oneiromancers were most well-regarded in their craft. When the years turned over and Ciri stayed as absent as ever, he stopped asking. But he doubts Eskel would not empathise with his fears – after all, he has his own Child Surprise. He knows what it is to be bound to one.

“Where are you headed for?” Eskel asks. “I just arrived this morning; was passing through on my way south. It’s still miserably cold out, and I thought perhaps the sun would be warmer in Toussaint.”

“West, for the coast,” Geralt replies. “Heard some rumours I want to check out. Was in a tavern in Shaerrawedd when I heard news of silver-haired women sighted in the marshes of Velen. Could come to nothing, but it will nag at me if I don’t investigate.”

“Our paths diverge, then,” Eskel says, tilting his head slightly to look at Geralt as though it will give him a better angle to perceive him with. “I don’t suppose you will want to stay another night, catch up on the month we’ve missed each other?”

“If we can find room to take us both,” Geralt says. “Had to bed with a dormitory full of drunkards last night, the city was so low on rooms. I much prefer hard ground and a rock pillow to a pallet like that, although I will admit the warmth was fairly necessary while the wind is still so bitter with frost.”

“Well, we can split the cost at a more expensive inn,” Eskel says, laughing. “I don’t mind sharing a room. Not all of us are as rowdy with the women as you, old friend.”

 _I’ve shared a room with Jaskier as often as I have with a woman,_ Geralt thinks, but does not say. The comment seems out of place, inappropriate somehow.

“I’m not that bad,” Geralt protests. Eskel raises his eyes.

“Not all of us bring beautiful sorceresses to Kaer Morhen, Geralt,” he scoffs. “And not even the one you tied your destiny to! Although I have to admit, I grew quite fond of Triss.”

“Everyone did except Lambert, and even he was just trying to hide his affection in scorn,” Geralt says, smirking at the memory.

Eskel shakes his head. “Poor, poor Lambert. He’s always been quite envious of you, Geralt, and your line of beautiful lovers has done nothing to dissuade that, I assure you.”

“Not my responsibility.”

“Ah, here we are,” the guild master says, appearing again with a heavy-looking box. “You’ll find the payment in here, a gold bar valued and stamped with the seal of the Vengerberg Treasury. Should have no trouble trading that for coin,” he says, and then adds under his breath, “as long as you’re not a _guild member,_ apparently.”

“Thanks,” Geralt says shortly, opening the small iron box to inspect its contents, and, satisfied, closing it again and tucking it under his arm. “Let’s go to the bank to deposit this – I want to spend some coin at the market. I’ve been wanting to get the edge sharpened on my silver sword; fighting an ifrit with it in the heat of a forge did no favours to the edge. Low on food and alchemy ingredients, too.”

“I’m envious. You could purchase a new set of armour with that gold.”

Geralt thinks of briefly of a newly-written will, and his slowly accumulating savings account in the Cianfanelli bank at Novigrad.

“Mm. Armour’s fine – I’d rather save the money.”

Eskel frowns at him for a moment, but does not comment. Geralt is glad of it – he does not quite know how he would answer.

* * *

After exchanging the gold bar at the bank, they spend the rest of the day visiting various shops around the city. Their success is mixed; some shopkeepers seem to see two witchers and decide they can afford a much steeper price, while others are so afraid of them that they sell their goods for practically nothing, or hide under the counter fearing some reprisal. Geralt hands over his silver sword to a dwarven blacksmith, who inspects it with a mixture of stupefaction and excitement. The smith then gazes at him reverently, and agrees to repair it for a steep discount. Geralt is not sure whether they are deifying him for the ifrit or the wraith, but decides not to look the gift horse in its mouth.

After lunch, they make their way to a small clearing outside the city walls, where they practice fighting drills they had been taught at Kaer Morhen.

“You’re restless, Geralt,” Eskel calls, as he dodges one of Geralt’s swings with ease. “You’ve lost your centre of calm.”

Geralt grits his teeth and swings again. Something in Eskel’s voice reminds him so strongly of Vesemir that it causes a brief moment of déjà vu. 

“Still giving you a run for your coin, though,” Geralt grunts, as he changes his attack pattern and comes up at Eskel from the ground. To his surprise, however, Eskel parries the blow immediately, and the angle of the collision sends Geralt reeling back.

“Shit,” he says. Eskel frowns, and lowers his sword.

“What is it that unsettles you, Geralt?” he asks. “Go on like this and you’ll meet your death at the hands of a common soldier, never mind the dragons you seem to enjoy chasing.”

Geralt swears again and sheathes his sword. “Ciri.”

Eskel’s face is filled with empathy. “Ah, your Child Surprise.”

“Funny,” Geralt says. “How you would do anything to avoid yours, and I would do anything to find mine.”

Eskel regards him for a moment. “You need to let go, Geralt. She is not without her own power – she can find her way back to you, if she is still alive. I imagine you have tried everything to try and track her.”

Geralt acknowledges him with a lengthy silence.

“As I thought. The thought of her fate haunts you. But you must continue living your life, even without her. Just as it always is when any of our more mortal friends depart this realm.”

“Had a strange encounter last night,” Geralt says abruptly. “Wraith that seemed to regain some of its senses. It just wanted revenge against its killers, but said it would depart if I gave a last message to its former lover.”

“It killed… itself?” Eskel says, frowning. “I’ve never heard of a wraith doing such a thing. Hope no more appear – put us well out of business.”

“Mm,” Geralt says. “Perhaps it was not a regular wraith.”

“The power of true love, Geralt,” Eskel says heavily. “A strange and dangerous thing. Remember what Vesemir used to say? When true love gets involved, you may as well throw the whole book against the wall.”

“Vesemir can be a foolish romantic,” Geralt snorts, shaking his head. “But perhaps in this, he is right.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Eskel says, raising his eyebrows at Geralt in mock offense. “I did not realise you had killed a wraith too – explains the weird whisperings I’ve heard about town. Such a shame you cleared out this city of two monsters before I arrived.”

“Sorry,” Geralt replies. He stretches his back, and looks up at the citadel walls. “Although, if you are truly desperate, there may still be some evil about. The ifrit cannot have been born of nothing; at some point, a mage was here and thought to spawn the creature in the forge. For what purpose, I do not know – perhaps it was simply the work of a rival business seeking to stall the steelworks’ profits.”

“Leaving loose ends, Geralt? Most unlike you.”

Geralt rolls his shoulders around, and feels the muscles pull pleasingly as he does so. “Here is what I think happened; a mage passed through here, of little or no training. Perhaps one of the sorcerers expelled from Ban Ard. He thought to summon a demon, and so he went to the steelworks at night to use the fire energy from the forges to aid his spell. Then either the ifrit killed him, or it scared him so badly he fled the city entirely, leaving his creation behind.”

Eskel chuckles. “Well, I’ll admit you have not lost your faculties of reasoning, at least.”

“Not everything is a part of some larger scheme of intrigue,” Geralt says, shrugging his newly loosened shoulders up and down. “More often than not, the cause of all our problems is ineptitude and stupidity.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Eskel says darkly. “Hell, I haven’t even told you about the contract I took out in Daevon on my way here…”

“To a tavern, then? I’ll buy you a few rounds as recompense for stealing away your contract.”

“Ah, Geralt, how could I resist such an offer,” the other witcher says, chuckling. “A gold bar stolen and a few ales in repayment. Well, it’s a start.”

* * *

On his way out of the gates of Gulet the next day, he is surprised to be greeted by a seemingly affable company of the city guard. He supposes they, too, have heard of his victory over the ‘Ghost of Gulet’, as they are now calling it.

“Where will you go now, Witcher?” the decurion of the company asks, yawning and twirling his index finger around in his left ear. “Off to Vengerberg to see your mistress?”

Vengerberg is only a week’s travel from Gulet, but even if Geralt were to go there, he does not know if Yen would be there – or if she would see him. Or if he wishes, in fact, to see her.

“No,” Geralt replies shortly. “West, for Velen. Unless you have heard any rumours of a silver-haired girl around these parts?”

“’Fraid not, Witcher,” the decurion replies. “You’d better watch your back in Velen, mind you. Awful place, Velen. Ravaged swampland and fields of corpses.”

“I’ll manage,” Geralt says. “Thank you for the coin.”

“Don’t go touchin’ any corpses!” cries out another guard beside him. “We’re gonna see a worsenin’ plague, after that Sproutin’ divination!”

Geralt blinks, and recalls his encounter with the oracle. Strange that the business with the wraith and his reunion with Eskel had put it entirely out of his mind.

“I don’t get sick,” Geralt says shortly, mounting Roach. Unbidden, a memory of Jaskier's voice comes to him, an echo from many years before.

“ _You don’t get sick_ , _fine. But what about homesick, I wonder?_ ”

Geralt pushes the memory away. He takes only the briefest moment to glance towards the northern mountains, before heading resolutely west.

* * *

He is halfway to the coast when meteors begin to fall from the sky.


	4. Birke - Part One

At the start of spring, Geralt is used to creatures crawling into the sun like ants streaming from a hill. Man and beast alike emerge from their winter dens, just in time to see buds blooming across the countryside. The streets fill with travellers as the ice melts away from the roads, and fishing boats fill the rivers and lakes once more.

Yet this year, he sees people stay hidden in their homes. Men are unwilling to speak to him, and women hide their children’s faces from his sight. Perhaps Velen is just more superstitious and hard-done by than he remembers; certainly the land is rotten from the strain of endless battle.

Or – perhaps it is the effect of the meteor shower. By now, whisperings of ill omens have made their way across the land. The details vary, but the message remains the same – great calamities will curse the Continent. When the comets struck the earth a month ago, they killed hundreds upon impact. Immense craters now lie where villages used to reside, dark and gaping scorch marks in the earth. The comets did not discriminate, either; they hit Kovir and Hengfors in the north, Ebbing and Maecht in the south, Cintra and Nazair in the west.

Meteors have fallen before, of course – Geralt’s own steel sword was forged with the iron of a meteor. But never have so many fallen across such a wide spread of land.

 _Bad portents_ , people whisper. _The gods are angry with us_.

Already refugees have started flooding the main roads. People flee not only from war-torn Velen, but even from wealthier cities like Vengerberg. The travellers seem to be instinctually seeking shelter elsewhere – and yet Geralt is not sure where, if anywhere, would be safe.

He is also still not sure if prophecies are to be trusted. Overreaction to the ramblings of oracles is what brought the Curse of the Black Sun down upon women like Renfri. Moreover, great calamities are nothing new to the North. The ravages of three wars have devastated the land and people both, brought about great poverty, and made the weak and displaced an easy target for the Catriona Plague.

On the whole, Geralt feels disinclined to panic about it – even if the prophecies were true, there is nothing _he_ could do to stop such a year of chaos.

His journey east is laborious, and he fights more drowners and foglets than he cares to count. The marshlands of Velen are overripe with cold fog, even as the warmth of spring advances upon the dormant fields and wakes plants from their slumber. Men are hanged at crossroad signs; soldiers and bandits lie as equals together in death, their bodies clumsily disposed of in mass, uncovered pits.

He does not get very far with asking after Ciri. He follows the trail of local legends, stories of young girls who flee a tribe of immortal crones. The villagers in Velen say the crones stole the girls’ youth, turned their skin ragged and their hair to silver-grey. His journey leads to a rather gruesome trio of witches in Crookback Bog, conducting human sacrifices to feed their vitality.

Geralt barely escapes them with his life.

When it becomes clear that Ciri has never set foot in the marshes of Velen, Geralt gives up on searching the area. Frustrated, he decides he will visit Novigrad. He has heard rumours that Triss Merigold is in the Free City, and remembers how much fondness the sorceress held for her ‘little sister’. Their last encounter had been many years ago, and yet Geralt feels that she would still do anything in her power to help him if he asked. He does not know whether Triss could help in any way Yennefer has not already tried – but he is tired, and desperate. Seeking help is better than stumbling around aimlessly in Velen any longer.

He is just leaving Mulbrydale when some Redanian soldiers start following his tail. At first, Geralt ignores them, and encourages Roach to trot a little faster. They follow him closely across the valley, keeping enough distance so as not to antagonise him by starting a charge. When it is clear they are not going to leave him alone, he sighs and turns his horse around.

“What?” he shouts across the muddy path.

“Geralt of Rivia!” cries the commander. “You have been summoned by His Majesty Radovid the Fifth, King of Redania!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Geralt mutters under his breath.

“We are to escort you to His Majesty’s Ship, the Oxenfurt-Tretogor,” continues the man, as the company approaches Geralt.

“I don’t need your escort,” Geralt says firmly. “Just point me in the right direction, I’ll get there myself.”

“Ah, well – if that is what – I mean,” the commander stutters, his authoritative façade cracking under the duress of a small complication. “Of course. That will be alright, provided you see to His Majesty’s aid at your earliest convenience.”

Geralt thinks the company look rather relieved to not have to accompany him back. He doesn’t doubt they’ve heard less than flattering tales about witchers.

“His Majesty’s Ship is in Oxenfurt Harbour,” the commander continues. He has a rather ridiculous red plume in his helmet that keeps falling over half his face. “So. That being the case, I shall inform His Majesty that he can expect your presence – soon.”

“Do that,” Geralt says lazily. He supposes Oxenfurt is not too far; a single day’s ride will get him there. Besides which, it is not far out of his way, and he has no pressing matters in Novigrad that need tending to. If Radovid has a contract for him, it is likely one that pays well. Geralt has been lacking coin since he repaired his armour and weapons last week in Crow’s Perch for a stupendous sum of money. Of course, he supposes he could always retrieve money from his Cianfanelli investment account – but the paperwork of such a task is more trouble than it is worth.

“His Majesty appreciates your service!” yells the commander. His voice cracks on the last word. Geralt almost smiles. The man is green, likely some rich noble’s son, put in a position he has not yet grown into. He hopes the man is not thrown into battle with Nilfgaard any time soon. He would perish the moment combat began.

* * *

Geralt approaches Oxenfurt Harbour with some trepidation, eyeing the lines of Redanian soliders on either side of the street. Scores of men have congregated here, some in ordered lines and others seemingly on break from duties. Locating King Radovid’s galley among the docked ships is not difficult; the hull is painted the bright crimson of its mother country, with large banner flags hung from every mast. Two men guard the gangplank to board; one wearing the shining badges of a field marshal, the other the folded brown hat of a witch hunter.

“Here to see Radovid,” Geralt says shortly. “Heard he asked for me.”

“Ah, the White-Haired Witcher,” the witch hunter sneers. “Give me your weapons and I’ll let you in – but know that if you give me the slightest reason, I won’t regret ridding the world of one more of your kind.”

“I hope you don’t get the chance to act on that threat,” Geralt says coolly. He hands over both of his swords, and a dagger he has concealed in his belt. The men nod, and uncross their halberds to let him pass.

The ship itself is practically built and seems to only hold necessities; prepared for war rather than for royal relaxation. It is a creation of cold iron, not painted glass. King Radovid sits at the stern, atop a makeshift throne that is as sparingly decorated as his boat. In front of him lies a table with game pieces, some of which are scattered on the floor.

“Geralt of Rivia,” the king declares upon seeing Geralt. “How nice of you to join me. It has been too long since the last time.”

Geralt supposes this is an allusion to when Radovid gouged out Philippa Eilhart’s eyes - Geralt had helped the sorceress escape him, although he believes Radovid is still ignorant of that fact. In the half-year since then, the king’s reputation for cruelty has only grown. Perhaps it is those rumours that make his face look harsher and more angular than ever before, contoured sharply by the bright midday sun.

“You asked for me, sire. Must have heard I was in the area,” Geralt replies cautiously.

“Indeed I did. Even without my impressive network of spies, news travel fast of the legendary White Wolf crossing borders. News that brings hope to some, fear to others. I wonder which you will bring to my enemies.”

“I stay out of politics where I can.” Geralt keeps his face deliberately controlled. In his experience with monarchs, especially with Radovid, he’s learned to keep as impartial a tone as possible.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” snaps Radovid. “That’s the way of cowards. Not taking a side is still taking a side; and even if it weren’t, you witchers always seem to end up affecting the path of history and then absolve yourself of any blame or punishment.”

“I think some would say we have been punished, Sire,” Geralt replies coolly. “To this day, mounds of skulls fill the moat at Kaer Morhen.”

“Hm. Indeed, I have forgotten myself,” the King relents. “Well, we shall see which side you fall on. I have a favour to ask of you, Witcher, one which will pay well – I know you obey the tides of commerce, if not of politics. A lie you tell yourself that they are separate. No matter.”

He gestures at one of his guards, and whispers in his ear. The guard nods, marches past Geralt, and descends down beneath the deck.

“I have heard not just of _your_ passage here, but of our old acquaintance Philippa. I have made her a wanted criminal of course, and promised rewards beyond measure for her capture – but to no avail. So far, all I have to show for it is some dead fools who thought to impress me with lies about her whereabouts.”

“You want me to hunt her,” Geralt says, heart sinking. The last thing he wants is to be caught up in Radovid’s mad vengeance, no matter how bountiful the coin.

“Indeed I do,” Radovid declares, “I have heard you are the best. Quite aside from that, I’d like you on my side – no good having a rogue agent in times like these. No matter how independent you think you are, there will come a time when you must choose who you stand behind, and I would prefer to have more men stand behind me.”

Geralt grits his teeth. He has no wish to subject the sorceress to Radovid’s torture, but he cannot deny the king to his face.

“I’ll look into Eilhart’s whereabouts, but I can promise no more. If others have failed to find her, I cannot promise my own success.”

“I expected no more from someone like you. Still, the offer has been made. And I will make my stance clear; it is my belief that if you are not working for me, you are working against me. I will not hesitate to kill you if I have any reason to believe you are aiding the sorceress or otherwise impeding my work. Is that understood?”

“Of course, sire,” Geralt says, and bows his head in respect. He is irritated to have to do so, but there is a time that self-preservation must come before pride. Radovid kills too easily to afford anything else.

“Good,” says Radovid, appeased. “You’re dismissed. I hope I see you soon, Witcher. You will find aiding my cause will not be without great rewards.”

Geralt nods again as he leaves, biting back a reminder about witchers having a known policy to stay out of the manoeuvrings of kings. Besides which, Radovid has already effectively refuted it; to say that Geralt alone had not deliberately affected the course of history many times over would be a falsehood.

* * *

Unlike the harbour, the streets of Oxenfurt are far less crowded than Geralt remembers. The last time he had been here, the streets had been overflowing with revelry – it was a town of bustling trade, alive with the vibrant energy of its young student population. Now, however, half the shops are empty. The Academy lies dormant. Geralt often noticed the scribblings of students past and present etched into the walls of the buildings and bridges; hasty declarations such as _Jacintha was here 1245_ , and _R x L forever 1269_. Colourful ribbons were strung atop roof gutters. Statues were defaced with paint, or flags, or even once, memorably, with a pair of pink silken underwear rumoured to belong to The Duchess of Toussaint.

The remnants of these marks remain, but instead of feeling amusement upon seeing them, Geralt feels a sort of chill. Most of the students that had lived here and so engraved their souls upon the city were now likely marching to their death.

Geralt makes his way to the most central Oxenfurt tavern, the Alchemy. Here, too, are signs of the war; usually bursting at the seams with frivolity, Geralt instead finds the place patronised by only a few sullen men. 

“Tankard of ale?” asks the owner, before registering the identity of his guest. “Ah, Geralt. It’s been years! How have you been?”

“Just fine, Stjepan,” Geralt replies, leaning over the bar counter. “I’ll take that ale. Got any leads for me?”

“It’s been quiet, here, alright,” Stjepan replies miserably. “Ever since the war started up again, there’s been barely any business, and no business means no overheard rumours on my part.”

The innkeeper pauses, and gets a twinkle in his eye that Geralt knows well.

“Care for a game of gwent? I’ve been using my free time to brush up on my skills. Won quite a few cards from the folks ‘round here, but now everyone refuses to play me!”

Geralt exhales a noise of amusement as Stjepan serves him a full glass. “If you’re expecting to rob me blind, I’ll have you know I’m quite good at the game myself.”

“Excellent,” the innkeeper says happily. “I’ll shout you your first drink as thanks.”

“Given the quality of the drink, I’d say that’s no real cost to you,” Geralt notes, having taken a sip of the watery ale and found it wanting.

“That’s the war for you,” sighs Stjepan. “Taking both my best customers _and_ my best spirits. A damn crime. Not sure if we’d be better off under Nilfgaard, if I’m honest.”

One of the other men at the bar counter spits and swears noisily. “Fuck Nilfgaard, and fuck you for even saying that, Stjepan.”

“Just a small joke, Alfread.” Stjepan says mildly. “I loathe them as much as you. They have no reason to invade the world and pollute it with their empire.”

The man grumbles, and Stjepan turns back to Geralt. “As you see, the mood here is rather poor.” He deals out his gwent deck, and Geralt fishes around in his pockets to do the same.

“Unsurprising,” Geralt replies as he unclasps his card box and shuffles his cards. “I was wondering, actually, if you’d heard any rumours specifically about a young woman with silver hair.”

“Like yourself?” Stjepan laughs. “Thought witchers were sterile! That’s why they have to steal children from the rest of us, innit?”

“Not my child,” Geralt says shortly. “Not by blood, anyway. Heard anything about her?”

His opening hand is strong, but Stjepan has already placed two formidable spy cards on the table. Geralt wonders if he’s about to lose quite a bit of his remaining coin.

“Nothing like that, no,” Stjepan muses. “But I did hear your sorceress came through here two months past. Didn’t stay long, mind; not sure what she was here for, either.”

 _Yen,_ Geralt thinks. The last time they had spoken, they had fought bitterly. Losing Ciri had left them circling each other like vipers in heat, processing their grief and frustration through fucking and hurting each other in turns. When Geralt had left, Yennefer hadn’t tried to stop him.

Geralt has managed to play his own spies from hand, evening the playing field. Stjepan regards him with some surprise as he swiftly claims the first victory of the game.

“You weren’t kidding about being good at this,” Stjepan says, annoyed. “Wouldn’t mind winning one of those cards in your deck, I’ll tell you that.” The innkeeper stares at his hand for a long time before playing the first card of the next round.

Midway through the second round, Geralt tries again. “Got any leads on any other sorceresses around here? Might be looking for someone, not sure where to start.”

“Not that I recall,” Stjepan says, biting his tongue in concentration. Geralt has him cornered once again. “A-ha!” he cries, and places a weather card on the table, wiping out Geralt’s attack power. “Take that, fiend!”

“No matter,” Geralt replies, surrendering the round to him. “I’ll win the last.”

“Actually there was something that might interest you,” the innkeeper says slowly. “Three of my patrons have vanished in the last few weeks. Now, they might have just wandered out of Oxenfurt, mind, and I might be raising a fuss over nothing. But, on the other hand, they’ve been coming here for years. Unusual for so many to go without a word of farewell.”

“Did they act suspiciously before vanishing?” Geralt asks.

“No, not really,” Stjepan sighs. “Of course, lots of people are fleeing the city, so I didn’t think much of it. Still, one of them just had a child – the road’s no place for a newborn, not in these troubled times.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt, as he plays his final card. “I believe I have it.”

“Miserable!” Stjepan declares. “Well, you won my best card, Geralt, and I’m none too happy about that. Suppose I deserve it for being so cocky.”

“Always a pleasure, Stjepan,” Geralt says lightly, draining the last of his ale. “If you give me the names of the men who vanished, I’ll see if I can find out anything.”

“Let’s see,” Stjepan thinks, tapping his chin. “Oren Horstede, Ridavan Tameier of Novigrad, and Terri Noderbilt of Gors Velen. That last was a halfling lass, with quite a spirit. I fear she got into a fight with the guards and was taken by the witch hunters, if I’m honest. Nothing I can do about it, though.”

“Did Terri have magic?” Geralt asks. “Or are the witch hunters just capturing anyone they please?”

“Any nonhuman will do,” Stjepan confirms sadly. “I’d watch your back too, Geralt. People starting to talk about signs of a great reckoning… I heard some folk the other night saying magic users had corrupted the natural order, that the only way to appease the Eternal Fire was to kill every last aberration on the Continent.”

“Charming,” Geralt mutters. “Wouldn’t expect any less. The minute things go south, things get blamed on the most convenient target.”

“Well, can’t blame them,” interrupts the man who had sworn at them before. Geralt can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Bloody sorceresses can do anything, can’t they? But they just sit about in their castles while the peasants get plague, and war, and famine.”

“Not quite true,” Geralt says, raising his voice a little and sharpening it into a growl.

“Oh fuck off, Witcher!” spits another patron, further back in the tavern. “We all know you’re fuckin’ one! Just because she has magic tits don’t mean she ain’t fuckin’ evil!”

“You’d better go,” Stjepan says apologetically. “I don’t want a fight in here.”

Geralt almost protests, but thinks better of it.

“Fine,” he says. “I hope to see you again when you have more pleasant clientele, Stjepan.”

He stands to take his leave, and some of the patrons jeer quietly and snicker into their drinks. On the way out, a woman throws a glass demijohn at him and hisses “Mutant!” The vessel hits the wall behind him and shatters, narrowly missing Geralt’s head.

“Oi!” he hears Stjepan bark behind him. “You’re paying for that!”

It is disheartening, but Geralt has had worse. He leaves the inn, and draws his hood over his hair, suddenly thrown back to the years following Blaviken. Yet despite his prior experience, the witcher is still surprised by the open hostility. He hasn’t had a civilian attack him openly in many years. Jaskier’s ballads had made him more recognisable, to his chagrin, but also made him more heroic in the eyes of the populace. Even if people still disliked mutants, they tended to keep a respectful distance, or yell at him when his back was turned.

Geralt spends the rest of his evening asking for after the names Stjepan had given him. Terri’s name gets him nowhere, but the other two lead him to a couple of houses in the same street, both looking rather decrepit. He knocks on the door for Ridavan and gets no answer. The door for Oren, however, swings open to reveal a timid child behind it, clutching a ragged toy rabbit.

Geralt softens his harsh expression and crouches down to her level. “I’m looking for Oren, Oren Horstede. Is this his house?”

The girl’s eyes well with tears. “It was,” she sniffs. “But papa’s been gone a week. Mama says she don’t know where he went, but says he probably ain’t coming back. Says he didn’t want another child after me, and now she’s ruined it all.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “Do you think I could speak with your mother?”

“Ma’s not here,” the girl says piteously. “She leaves every night for work. I’d take you there, ‘cept she says I’m not allowed to go. Place called the Rose, or something.”

“The Rosebud?” Geralt asks, and the girl nods. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

“Wasn’t no trouble,” the girl says meekly.

 _The Rosebud,_ Geralt thinks. _Well, perhaps Oren did skip out on her, if the child wasn’t his._

He makes his way to the brothel, careful to avoid eye contact with the Redanian soldiers and witch hunters alike. By the time he has arrived, streetlamps are being lit by the council workers, and the stained windows of the Rosebud create a bright coloured pattern in the dark. Inside, Geralt can see figures moving around – black silhouettes surrounded by warm candlelight.

A soothing melody is being played somewhere within; some sort of stringed instrument accompanied by a muted voice. From outside, Geralt cannot tell if the singer is male or female. He knocks on the door and is admitted by a tall, well-muscled man, who glances over him once and then nods in approval.

As the door opens, the song becomes clearer, and Geralt is hit with a wave of warm recognition.

 _“The air bears autumn's cool scent,  
Our words seized by an icy gust.  
Your tears have my heart rent,  
But all is gone and part we m- _Geralt!”

Jaskier’s lute chords are brought to an abrupt, discordant end, and he jumps up from his seat. “Sorry, ladies,” he says to the half-naked courtesans surrounding him in the centre of the atrium. “Terribly unprofessional of me but – well – that’s the man himself! Geralt of Rivia! Hello, Geralt!” He bounds across the room to embrace the witcher enthusiastically.

Geralt raises an eyebrow at Jaskier and his state of total depravity. No less than seven women are lying around his table, and he is noticeably drunk. “Having a good time, Jaskier?”

“Just got much better,” Jaskier says cheerily. He is far too close to Geralt’s face. The stench of alcohol on his breath is overwhelming. “Sorry, ignore my friends, they’ve seen enough of me for a month – let’s find somewhere to catch up. If you’re not in any hurry, that is,” he says, hesitating, “or maybe you have to get back to Yenne–”

“Not with Yen,” Geralt interrupts, before Jaskier can continue that line of inquiry. “Parted ways some time ago.”

Jaskier beams. Geralt finds himself a little annoyed at the obvious dislike Jaskier has for his paramour. He often encouraged Geralt to fall into bed with other women, as though somehow Geralt’s destiny would shift towards a girl Jaskier could approve of. Geralt could never figure out if Jaskier just wanted more fodder for his ballads, or if he truly believed Geralt would be better off with absolutely anyone but Yen.

“Sorry to hear that,” Jaskier says, sounding not sorry at all. “Just the men then, just the two of us – ah, I won’t lie to you Geralt, I’m getting old now, you know, but still got what it takes with the ladies, as it happens, so no real concern yet!”

He finishes this last proclamation with a theatrical wink, and blows kisses to the women at his table, who respond with various levels of enthusiasm. Geralt frowns. It strikes him that Jaskier is trying to be – _Jaskier_ – much more than usual. But something about his manner is off, as though he’s barely holding the mask together.

“I’ve got a room here tonight, if you’d like to stay,” Jaskier says abruptly. “Unless you’d rather have separate – which, of course, I understand, if you want a go at the girls–”

“A single room is fine, Jaskier,” Geralt says firmly. “Thanks.”

“Brilliant,” his friend murmurs, lost in some thought. “I’ll, er – just pop in to the madam, check about the changed charges–”

He watches his friend rush to the backroom, a secondary annex hidden behind a series of folded drapes. It is only as he watches the bard disappear behind the curtains that Geralt realises what is off about his manner.

 _He’s nervous,_ Geralt thinks, frowning again. _But why? He’s acting with the same sort of skittish energy he did when I first met him. Surely he’s not afraid of me, after all this time?_

A couple of the girls whistle at him and try to draw him over. Geralt remembers he was here for a reason, and sits down in the chair Jaskier had been occupying.

“The name Oren Horstede mean anything to you ladies?” he asks, glancing around the circle of women. One flinches at the mention of the man’s name.

“Who’s asking?” the prostitute hisses, glaring at Geralt.

“Just heard he was missing,” Geralt replies calmly. “Thought I’d look around, in case it was something bad that took him.”

“I ain’t payin’ ya for it,” the woman replies haughtily. “Not enough money for the likes of you. And anyway, I’m well rid of him – he liked to waste my money on drink more often than not!”

“Not looking for payment,” Geralt says. “Just looking for the cause of his disappearance. Couple of others have gone missing too. As it happens, I’m working a contract, and finding dark magic is the only lead I have right now.”

“Oh, there’s tons of folk that’ve been disappearin’,” pipes up another girl. She’s young – too young to be working, Geralt thinks – but then again, perhaps she’s just made up to look that way. “I lost three customers this month, and I know they’re loyal – they wouldn’t leave me for the world.”

“Oh calm yourself, Princess,” snarls another. “You’re not that special.”

“She’s right though,” a fourth chimes in. “Some of mine have gone missin’ too.”

“Anyone seen anything suspicious around town?” Geralt asks.

“Yeah, Desdemona got yanked the other night!” the one called Princess exclaims. “She said it was a tall, handsome man that grabbed her right out of the street – but she carries a knife in her sleeve when she’s walkin’ alone, so she stabs the bastard quick-like, and flees back here!”

“Is Desdemona working tonight?” Geralt asks, relieved to finally be getting somewhere.

“Yes,” one of the courtesans says, “But she’ll be busy all evening. She’s Jaskier’s favourite, you know, and she’s been making a habit of taking on the unsavoury customers, just so she doesn’t have to endure that poor man weepin’ on her all night!”

Geralt represses a smile at his friend’s expense. _Well,_ he thinks wryly. _That part never made it into the stories of your conquests, old friend._

“I can let her know you’d like to speak to her, though!” says Princess in a rush, twirling her hair and blushing. Out of the corner of his vision, Geralt thinks he sees a couple of the other women rolling their eyes.

“That would be helpful, thank you,” Geralt says.

“Geralt!” exclaims Jaskier, emerging from the madam’s room with a set of keys jangling in his hand. “Have you taken over my kingdom already? Usurped my gracious rule?”

“Another night, perhaps,” Geralt says, winking at the courtesans. “Got to satisfy my friend’s taste for stories first.”

“Bye, Witcher!” they sing cheerfully. Jaskier’s expression droops a little.

“They’ve never been that friendly to _me_ ,” he complains, as they make their way upstairs.

“Perk of the trade,” Geralt shrugs. “Whores know I’m clean, and that I won’t get them with child. As long as you aren’t violent, you’re one of the best customers they’ll have.”

“You must tell me everything,” Jaskier says enthusiastically, fumbling to unlock their room. “This is it, right? – Number eleven, yes. The last time I saw you,” he continues, “when was it – a year ago? More?”

“Two years ago, when I decided to go back to Kaer Morhen for winter,” Geralt recalls. “You said they wouldn’t let you in Kaer Morhen, and anyway, you didn’t want to be the – what was it – the ‘delicate, wilting flower in the corner’ _._ ”

“I’ll admit,” Jaskier says smiling, “I have always wanted to see the great fortress for myself, to know where you were raised. But I believe I made the right choice. Ah, here we are–” he says, managing to get the key unlocked at last. “Your palace awaits, sir.”

The accommodation is a step down from the Kingfisher in Novigrad, but is otherwise far improved on all of Geralt’s recent stays. One of his many regrets of parting ways with Yennefer was her ability to magically procure lavish tents for them to fuck and rest in wherever they pleased.

“Ah, double bed.” Jaskier says. “Of course, I’d quite forgotten. Still, no harm, I can sleep on the fl–”

“I’ve seen you piss and vomit more times than I care to remember,” Geralt interrupts. “And we’ve shared a bed whenever it was suitable before. If it bothers you now, you can pay for a separate room.”

“No, that’s alright,” Jaskier says quickly. “Obviously, it’s fine, just – I know Yennefer can get jealous, ha ha – just a joke, but–”

Geralt is tired of this. “Jaskier,” he commands. “Shut up for a moment. I don’t know why you’re suddenly afraid of me, but months apart hasn't altered the friendship I feel for you.” He pauses, hesitant. “If that has changed for you, however, I understand.”

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier says miserably. “No, of course, you’re my best friend, dammit. It’s not that. I just–” he pauses, and hides his head in his hands. “I know this is ridiculous, but I’ve missed you a rather intolerable amount, and I suppose I’m just nervous you’ll go off again without me and get killed, or I’ll get killed, or – or – _something_! And it’s making me conscious of every damn word I say, in case I say the wrong thing, which you have to admit I seem to rather often,” he finishes, his words running into each other in his rush to get them out.

“I won’t argue with that,” Geralt says, smiling. “But take some comfort in knowing I am in no particular hurry to leave Oxenfurt, or your company.”

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and his eyes well with tears. Geralt remembers again that his friend is extremely intoxicated, and imagines it is likely he won’t even recall the specifics of this conversation in the morning.

“You should probably sleep,” Geralt says, nodding towards the bed. Jaskier sinks down onto it blissfully, and Geralt experiences a moment of blessed silence before the bard interrupts it with a warbling, slow dirge that goes on while Geralt undresses himself for bed.

“ _The skies are full, full up of tears, and crying,  
The mountains flood, and flow into the sea.  
Let me see your face while I am dying,  
And then I’ll pass, at peace with what shall be._”

“Jaskier?” Geralt sighs, turning his back to the bard and blowing out the candle on the bedside table next to him. “Go to sleep.”

“Yes, my muse, my dearest,” Jaskier says sleepily. “They always say, in a good marriage, you shouldn’t fight before bed.”

Geralt wonders if that’s an actual superstition, or if Jaskier is just making a private dig at Yennefer. After a moment of contemplation, he decides it’s not worth the bother of asking. In any case, Jaskier is already breathing heavily beside him, lost in a deep slumber.

* * *

The next morning he awakes to find Jaskier sprawled out next to him, taking up more than half the mattress and drooling happily into his pillow. While not the most sensual of bed partners, Geralt had to admit he feels a rush of affection for the man snoring beside him. It has been too long with the bard lifting his spirits – much as Geralt would never admit such to Jaskier’s face.

Geralt wets his fingers in a water pitcher, and sprays Jaskier with droplets. “Get up, Jaskier.”

Jaskier groans and rolls over. “I’m dying – I’m dying and I’m dead. Go on without me, my sweetness, and tell them stories of my–” he pauses, and squints an eye open. “Geralt!” he cries happily, and then winces. “Ow.”

“For someone complains of such terrible hangovers, you seem to chase them rather eagerly,” Geralt says. “Do you even remember last night?”

A complicated, pained expression passes over Jaskier’s face. “Um. Last night. Er,” he says slowly. “Look, Geralt, if I invited you to my bed, I apologise–”

“You weren’t so far gone you mistook me for a whore, if that’s your concern,” Geralt says with great cheer.

“Oh, yes. Well. Bit hard,” laughs Jaskier nervously. “Big brute like you. Tower over all the other girls. Imagine you in a dress,” he says, and then sniggers. “Bloody hell, picture it – pink lace. Or Yennefer’s dreary leather straps. An abomination to fashion. Your shoulders would rip the material, of course. We’d have to get one made specially.”

“Still have a lot of wine in you, it seems,” Geralt says, although he’s smirking as he says it. “Go piss it out before you insult anyone more inclined to punch your teeth in.”

“Ah, that’s why I reserve my greatest teasing for you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, slipping out from the bed coverlets and yawning. “You understand the value in preserving my beauty.”

By the time he returns, Geralt has put his reassembled his armour and packed his sparse belongings into his pockets. Jaskier, on the other hand, is sporting a delightfully ruffled bedhead, and his clothing is rumpled and untucked.

“Geralt, we can’t be leaving already. It’s barely sun up.”

“You’ve gotten lazy in my absence,” Geralt says, tossing Jaskier his coat. “If you want to come along with me today, we’re leaving now. I want to track down whatever thing is kidnapping people off the streets, before it strikes again.”

“Always the hero,” Jaskier mumbles. “Fine, fine.” He tosses Geralt ten farthings, and shakes his head. “My half of the room.”

Geralt digs around in his coin purse and finds he only has three farthings left among the melange of metal discs. “Damn it. Jaskier, you’ll need to cover this one. I haven’t had a chance to change currencies since I got into town.”

“You’re joking,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Bloody hell, Geralt, you make me pay for everything and you don’t even put out. It’s lucky you’re damn pretty–”

“Oh, be quiet,” Geralt grumbles. He takes the additional coins from Jaskier as they enter the backroom and counts out the money for the Rosebud’s owner.

“Twenty farthings,” Geralt says, “and I was wondering if Desdemona was around.”

“Desdemona?” Jaskier says, perking up. “Geralt, you know my dear Desdemona? I had no idea–”

Geralt kicks him with the side of his boot, and Jaskier shuts up obediently.

“Yes, she’ll be in taproom round the back, washing up,” the madame says, and then stands up from her chair and moves to a small metal slot in the wall behind her. She slides the grate open, and yells, “DESSIE! Man here asking after you! Some witcher!”

“Coming, ma’am!” A girl’s voice yells back. They wait in tense silence for a minute, Jaskier fidgeting with his coat buttons, and then a girl opens the door in the back wall which lets out a blast of white steam through the opening. 

“Oh!” she says, “Witcher!” – and then, seeing Jaskier – “Ugh. And you.”

Jaskier splutters, and the madame says sharply, “That’s no way to address a customer, Dessie.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” she says meekly. “How I can help Master Witcher today?”

“Heard you got jumped by a man the other night,” Geralt says. “Wanted to know if you had any information that might help me find him. Seems a lot of people are going missing, and Oxenfurt can hardly stand to lose more.”

“Aye, that’s a true statement if I ever heard one,” the madam sighs. “Lost so much business most of my girls just end up idling around this one every night,” she says, pointing her thumb at Jaskier, who looks rather hurt.

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” the girl says shyly. She’s young, and quite beautiful, Geralt notices, and her face is wiped clean of the powder and dyes that usually decorated courtesan’s faces. “He grabbed me from behind. I didn’t give him a chance to talk or do anything else, because I stabbed him quick, and sprinted off as fast as I could.”

“Any hope you mortally wounded him?” Geralt asks. “Would rather be searching for a corpse than a killer.”

“Oh no,” Desdemona says sadly. “But I got him right in the thigh. Good and deep. He’ll be limping for a while, I’ll tell you that. I was right outside the Western Gate when it happened, if that helps.”

“That is helpful, thank you.”

“If that’s all,” Desdemona says, eyeing Jaskier apprehensively.

“It is,” Geralt concludes, and tosses her a farthing.

The witcher puts a hand out to stop his friend from pursuing the courtesan as she retreats to the taproom.

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “So we know the man targets courtesans who wander near the university at night, and is missing such a victim from his collection.”

Jaskier – with years of experience reading the inflections in Geralt’s voice, and the thoughts between his words – gulps audibly.

“Sure. Yes. I suppose.”

“You know,” Geralt says, with a twinkle in his eye. “I believe you were just saying how terrible I would look in a dress this morning, but you on the other hand are not only an accomplished actor–”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Jaskier moans. “Why must you emasculate me thus?”

“How much would it cost us,” Geralt asks the madam, “To borrow some make-up and a dress and wig for the night?”

The madam cracks a wicked grin. “If you manage to get the bastard that’s been taking my customers and scaring my girls, no charge at all.”

* * *

Geralt spends the morning resupplying his items, and exchanging some of his other currencies for farthings. Jaskier had gone off on his own, saying something about finding an ‘old friend’. As it turned out, the phrase was no glib euphemism. Around midday, Jaskier runs up to Geralt in the markets, visibly wheezing from the exercise. Geralt doesn’t bother to greet his friend – he has just haggled a price down for a new saddle, and Jaskier is interrupting.

“A pox on my old age,” Jaskier puffs. “Geralt, thank the gods. She hasn’t left yet!”

“She?” Geralt says, curious despite himself. He waves an apologetic hand up to the saddler, who looks thoroughly unimpressed with the disruption to their negotiations.

“Shani!” Jaskier says, delighted. “I saw her three days past, back from the war front. They’ve sent her back to retrieve new research from the Academy, on healing the Catriona Plague.”

“And? Have they done it?” Geralt asks, impressed. The Catriona Plague had been a curse upon the Continent. It had first broken out three years ago, and the first few months had been unlike anything Geralt had seen. Cities, towns and villages were all utterly unprepared for contagion, and piles of bodies accumulated in roadside ditches and outside city walls. The perfect food for monsters, and the perfect birthing place for necrophages and plague maidens. Geralt had slashed his way through more corpses in that one year than in the entire decade before it.

Jaskier removes the feathered cap from his head, and wipes the sweat from his brow. “No, no. No cure, as yet, but getting closer every day. It’s been relatively contained for some time now, of course, but there are still outbreaks here and there, especially at the warfront, where sanitation is so poor.” He replaces the cap, and places one hand on his hip – Geralt assumes he must have a stich. “But she says they have found a way to slow the progression of symptoms – she can tell you herself, anyway. I told her we’d meet her next to old Nicodemus – you know. That bronze bust next to Guildenstern Bridge.”

Geralt is hesitant. “Jaskier, as much as I wish to see Shani again, I hope you have not promised her things would be as it once was.”

Jaskier feigns ignorance. “Why, Geralt, you know me. I never meddle in your affairs. Let the heart want what it wants, I say – for poetry cannot be written on the back of calculation and artifice.”

“And yet,” Geralt bites out, “I seem to remember multiple occasions where you pushed me towards women in our acquaintance, despite my never imposing the same arrogance on you.”

Jaskier brushes a hand to his chest in an overdramatic gesture of hurt. “You wound me, Geralt. I have never had anything in mind but your best interests. I admit, in the past I have noticed you moping over the sorceress and have gently encouraged–”

“Shouting, on several occasions, for me to get my head out of my arse–”

“ _Strongly_ encouraged you to seek female company so that you might bolster your spirits, and give the poor women on your coattails a small gift of gratitude for their attentions.”

Geralt glares at him, and Jaskier fiddles with a small button on his vest.

“In any case,” Jaskier says, his eyes flickering up to Geralt to check it is safe to speak without drawing more of the witcher’s ire, “Shani is expecting us, so we should hasten there.”

Geralt growls. He turns back to the shopkeeper, who is looking thoroughly amused. “Shall we make it three hundred and sixty-five farthings, then?”

The price is far higher than Geralt was aiming to pay, but the shopkeeper has correctly ascertained that his customer is now in a hurry. “Fine,” Geralt grunts, and counts out the amount to pass over. “Jaskier, you go ahead. I have to get this saddle to the stables by Novigrad Gate.”

“Oh, I’ll take the saddle,” Jaskier volunteers. “Change over your pack, too. Roach won’t bite me,” he adds proudly. “You two have much to talk about. She’s been ordered to leave Oxenfurt later tonight, you know, so time is draining from the hourglass as we speak!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt begins, but the bard cuts him off again.

“In fact,” Jaskier says loudly, stroking his beard, “I believe I have just remembered some urgent business. Give Shani my regards, and tell her I wish her a safe journey.”

Geralt curses under his breath. “Fine,” he says in defeat, “fine. Just – don’t forget, I need you at the brothel by the time the evening bells ring.”

“Vespers, Rosebud, got it,” Jaskier echoes. “Now, be on your way – you shouldn’t keep a lady waiting!” The bard skips away to the east, hefting the saddle over his shoulder.

 _A good thing he left the lute in his room today,_ Geralt thinks idly. He turns and walks in the opposite direction, towards the Western Gate. The walk is quite pleasant – Oxenfurt is still a charming city to explore, for all the war had taken from it. He passes a music shop, selling beautiful fiddles made of delicately engraved wood, and a pet shop, animals thrashing and yowling about in their cages. He walks down a street of sizzling stoves and pans, and decides to buy some roasted squid to assuage his growing hunger.

Finally he comes to the southern end of the city, and finds the statue Jaskier spoke of. The bronze bust has been worn down with people rubbing its head for luck, and a shiny blotch of silver creates the look of a balding man, despite Nicodemus having been cast with a full head of hair. He leans down to read the plaque at the base.

_Nicodemus de Boot  
First Chancellor of the Academy of Oxenfurt  
Author of ‘Meditations on Life, Happiness and Prosperity’  
“Intelligence for intelligence’s sake must be encouraged, for education is the only means by which a people progress.”_

“Geralt!”

He looks up with surprise as a beautiful young woman runs towards him. She leaps at his chest and embraces him firmly.

“Shani,” Geralt replies, and he returns her hug before holding her an arm’s length away to look her up and down. “You’ve changed these past years.”

“Well, I’m twenty-two now, old man,” Shani says, grinning back at him. “Nothing on your life, of course, but I’ve been all over with the war – right down to Brenna, during the battle, Vizima, treating the plague, and all across Velen now with this damned new war. It’s just endless, Geralt – bodies piling up every day, and we can only do so much.”

Geralt leans back against the Nicodemus’s plinth. “I’m sure you do an enormous amount of good.”

Shani, however, shakes her head. “There are only so many of us, and the nature of dealing with sickness all the time is that _we_ get sick and die even more than other folk,” she says heatedly. “So the work just gets worse. Listen to me, calling it ‘the work’, like one of my old professors.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it is,” Geralt says, edging cautiously around her passionate emotions.

“Oh, please,” she says, laughing. “Your job is far harder than mine. At least I just deal with sewing up humans. Well, sometimes the odd elf or dwarf, if they’ve been foolish enough to stray into the battle or join the ranks of an army that hates their guts.”

“Killing is much easier than healing.”

Shani wrinkles her brow and studies Geralt with the air of a scientist inspecting a specimen. “You’re wiser than I remember,” she says. “Perhaps I should get you to speak to the men in charge of all this fighting. I should like one of these kings to be a medic,” she declares passionately. “If they mended bodies day and night as we do, they might think twice before ordering another assault, another battle, another war.”

“Kings are not as wise as medics, in my experience.”

“You’re right, of course,” Shani sniffs. “Now, what shall we make of the rest of my day off? Tonight I leave for the war front in Velen again, and I could not say when next I shall see decent ale, fresh water or unmoulded cheese.”

“We could go to the Alchemy,” Geralt offers, “although I will admit their ale is none too decent.”

Shani regards him with a dark look on her face. “Trust me. It’s more decent than the piss in Velen. And when I say ‘piss’, I mean I truly do not know if there is a chemical difference between the substances.” She bites her lip, and then says hastily, “But, I think the Alchemy is too depressing – there’s a place by the harbour, well-hidden. They’ve sealed it right up, and to the street it looks like it’s closed and empty, but underground business booms. Do you remember the Three Little Bells?”

“I do,” Geralt replies. “I thought it was odd such a popular place had gone out of business. If I recall, Jaskier said it was one of his favourite places to perform poetry when he was a student.”

“Hasn’t gone out of business,” Shani grins. “Not at all. It’s the only place in the city where you can get a decent drink. They smuggle customers in through the adjoining brothel behind it – if they see any Redanian soldiers come in for business at the brothel, they just hide the entrance.”

“How do they keep a secret like that in a city like this?” Geralt marvels.

Shani quirks one of her thin, red eyebrows at him. “Students have kept a great many secrets of the Academy hidden for years. Secret passageways, forbidden fighting rings… Now that the Academy is closed, it seems the rest of Oxenfurt has adapted their pack mentality. United against a common enemy, and united in the protection of their local sanctuary of drink and dancing.”

“Then,” Geralt says, carefully casual, “I should like to treat you to a drink at that sanctuary, if that would be acceptable.”

Shani regards him with an inscrutable look on her face. “It would,” she sighs at last, giving up on whatever internal debate she was holding with herself.

Geralt takes her to the harbour, and they chat about various topics as they go. By the time they get to the brothel, Shani is telling Geralt of the research being done Redania deep in the bowels of Oxenfurt Academy.

“They’ve closed off the Academy to everyone else of course,” she scoffs. “But I’ve been allowed inside. They cannot transport the laboratory equipment out, so they have set up a secret underground area for war research. The professors scurry around in the dungeons like red-eyed rats, kept too long from sunlight.”

She lowers her voice. “You wouldn’t believe it, but it’s not just the Departments of Medicine and Herbology down there. I could swear I saw Professor Shakeslock – Department of Supernatural Phenomena – chained to a desk in the library. He’s an expert on black magic, so I expect Radovid has him trying to thwart the sorceresses he thinks are lurking around every corner.” She rolls her eyes.

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

Shani raises her eyebrows at him incredulously. “You think he’s trying to use magic himself?”

“Often those who fear power only fear it because they do not have it,” Geralt says.  
“The solutions are only twofold; eradicate it, or possess it. It’s also possible that Radovid isn’t personally overseeing this – could just as well be one of his chief advisers. I imagine there was quite a hole left at the top of his command when Sigismund Dijkstra fled.”

Shani shakes her head. “I have enough to deal with without the kind of magical warfare used at the Battle of Sodden Hill. Oh, here we are–”

They turn into a corner alleyway, where a flickering red lantern hangs above a ramshackle collection of garbage and broken furniture. A sign under the lamp reads ‘ _The Tender Mile’_ , the letters written in peeling gold foil.

“This is the place,” Shani says brightly, and enters the door concealed behind a particularly rotted stack of chairs. 

The establishment inside is set a level below ground. Red lights twinkle over a smattering of whores and customers, although the atmosphere seems tepid at best. “Just past here,” Shani says, leading him down the steps to an even lower level. The three or four patrons in the whorehouse seem to barely glance at the two of them as they go past.

The lower level is filled with dust, barrels and cobwebs. Yet a tell-tale path leads through the centre of the floor, a visible line through the grime wiped clean by frequent passage. At the other end of the cellar is a wall-to-wall bookcase.

“Don’t tell me,” Geralt says in a deadpan voice. “Secret passage behind the shelf.”

“It’s no fun trying to deceive a witcher like you,” Shani says, huffing with amusement. “I expect you’ve seen it all.”

She skims a finger along the spines of the books, and selects one titled ‘ _The Hunchback of Zurbarràn_ ’. She tugs at the book, and it swings forward, snapping into place halfway out of the shelf.

“An invention courtesy of some eccentric at the Faculty of Technology,” Shani explains, as Geralt hears gears click and turn behind the bookcase. Something seems to come loose, and a whole section of the shelf edges forward on a hinge. Shani finds the seam and opens the

“The books are all hollow,” Geralt marvels, rapping on the surface of the door as he slips past it. “What incredible craftmanship.”

“Well, you know the Fine Arts students,” Shani laughs. “Always short on work. I’m sure this was a wonderful way for them to waste time.”

Inside the Three Little Bells, the atmosphere is alive. It seems that half of Oxenfurt’s missing population is down here, and it comes as a shock to Geralt that the walls and bookcase hid the sound of chatter, music and clinking glasses from even his witcher’s hearing. Tables full of customers line every side of the basement wall, and a makeshift bar built of stacked wooden crates has been set up on the other side of the room. Someone is strumming a mandolin in the corner, and for half a second Geralt thinks it is Jaskier’s lute. But, no – the music is far different to Jaskier’s usual fair; perhaps Ofiri or Zangvebarian in origin. In the middle of the room, the floor has been cleared out and a few people are dancing along to the lively jig.

“So? What do you think?”

Shani is positively shining with eagerness.

“Impressive,” Geralt admits, with a quirk of his lips. Shani punches the air in delight.

“I knew you’d like it!” the young medic beams. “Come on, let’s try to find a table…”

They cram in against a wall, Geralt feeling even more out disproportionate than usual as his shoulders rub up against fellow patrons. Despite that, nobody seems to pay the witcher much mind – the clientele is diverse enough that Geralt is no stranger than the dwarven woman sporting a bright purple beard.

“People come from all over from the Continent to Oxenfurt,” Shani says quietly, “many of them outcasts of their villages and towns. This was a refuge for them, a city of nonconformists and dangerous ideas – the birthplace of the Oxenfurt Revolution, of course – and now, well. You see what remains of that culture around you. Radovid has swooped down from his perch in Tretogor, and people bold enough to contradict the tenets of his rule are swiftly executed.”

“Radovid cannot afford dissent,” Geralt replies, “not with Nilfgaard at his doorstep, advancing every minute. The slightest crack could spell the end for his rule.”

“ _Radovid_ spent the winter taking Kaedwen, while the Nilfgaardians were freezing in their southern-soft boots,” Shani whispers. “With almost the whole North at his disposal, Nilfgaard has no chance for an outright victory.”

“Never bet on the outcome of a war where sorcerers are still in play,” Geralt says heavily. “Shall I get you mead, wine, or ale?”

They sit and drink for a while, and discuss the war. Geralt notices that Shani is much more confident in herself than she was when they first met – still, something of a bashfulness remains now and then when she glances at Geralt over her mead. Her dark red hair has grown a little longer, a little more untamed, although it still rests above her shoulders. Her hands are scarred with cuts and nicks from sewing countless patients back together. Geralt notices the white lines as she gesticulates passionately about the southern import tax crippling trade in Novigrad.

“And so,” Shani says suddenly. “I assume Jaskier has abandoned us for the rest of the afternoon?”

Geralt takes a deep sip from his tankard. “Said he had something urgent to do, although he did not divulge the specifics to me.”

Shani laughs, a high, clear sound. “Do you know, I think he hoped to set us up again. Like we needed his help last time,” she adds, grinning wickedly.

Geralt freezes, mid-motion to putting his tankard back on the table. “Ah,” he says hesitantly. He remembers their brief affair in Oxenfurt, which had been cruelly cut short by Jaskier’s appearance. He cannot deny the offer is enticing, but–

“I, uh. Have a house here, a clinic that has been used as a small hospital in my absence, as the university is closed to public access,” Shani says, looking at Geralt with some anticipation. “I still have private rooms there.”

Geralt considers it. He considers the way Shani’s fingers tremble, just the tiniest bit, on the handle of her tankard. He considers the flush in her face, and the earnest hope in her eyes. He recalls the feeling of her body beneath his. Yet he also remembers the scent of lilac and gooseberries, now a distant memory. He thinks of raven black hair, a disapproving glare, and skin as cold as ice. More importantly, he remembers Jaskier’s naked relief to see him again and the way he had trembled a little in his sleep last night. He remembers the fear on the courtesan’s faces when they gossiped about the monster haunting the streets of Oxenfurt.

“I can’t, Shani,” Geralt says. He holds his hand up in apology. “I am hunting tonight. If I had more time–”

“Oh, of course,” Shani says, although she is a poor actress and cannot mask her disappointment. “It was a stupid idea in the first place, Geralt. I have to report back to Field Hetman Andersel by sunset, anyway.”

“No,” Geralt protests. “If things were different–”

Shani smiles at him. “I know. But perhaps it was a stupid idea on _my_ behalf – my heart should not keep holding out hope for one so clearly and famously tied to another.”

Geralt feels regret lance through his chest. “I cannot promise you, or any woman, the kind of constancy that you deserve. It is not just because of – the things you have heard. It is who I am.”

“I know,” Shani repeats. “It’s my own weakness. The war makes fools of us all. You walk upon Death’s country, and you realise the fragility of life, how quickly it can be snuffed out. It makes you want to rush towards certain things, in case – in case you’re the next one to fall to the scythe.” She smiles, though her face is shadowed with melancholy. “And well, my mother is no help – always pestering me to find a husband, telling me the battlefield is no place for a lady.”

“I cannot imagine how many men owe you their lives because of your presence there,” Geralt says with weighty sincerity.

Shani’s smile gains a little more gladness.

“Do you think you’ll ever settle down with her? Yennefer of Vengerberg? Even witchers deserve happiness, I should think.”

Geralt flinches at the mention of her name. “Monsters don’t retire. There will always be a need for witchers, so long as that is the case.”

“If you say so,” Shani says, leaning down upon the table, nestled in her folded arms. “And I thought medics took on too much personal responsibility.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Geralt says curtly. “I haven’t seen her in years, now. We lost someone important to us, and – the loss was hard.”

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to reply to that.

Shani shakes her head at his silence. “There you go again. You know, the more time I spend with you, the more I believe we women just project whatever we want into your head. I can’t even tell what you’re thinking right now, or what you feel, or whether you feel at all. Perhaps you just go along with whatever we say, until it no longer suits you.”

“That isn’t fair,” Geralt protests, although there is some truth to her observation. He’s learned it is often less effort to simply let people talk around him, and only interject when absolutely necessary.

Shani doesn’t seem to hear him. “No wonder Jaskier loves writing about you. The perfect champion, silent and brooding. You can project anything onto a main character like that.”

This last jibe stings more than the rest, although Geralt cannot say why. Shani notices his face cloud over, and quickly retreats. “I merely meant that you fit the archetype of the hero, Geralt. I meant no insult.”

Geralt chooses to steer the conversation into safer waters. “I am glad that you and Jaskier have kept in touch these last few years, at least.”

Shani’s face does a funny sort of twist. “You mean when he’s not following you around, too busy dragging your swords through countryside ditches?”

“Is that what he says?” Geralt says drily. “It must be a difficult task for him to accomplish, since my swords rarely leave the sheathes strapped to my back.”

“Well, Jaskier exaggerates. But when he’s not with you, he makes fairly consistent appearances at Novigrad and Oxenfurt. Spends his time writing plays there and teaching lectures here, when he’s not troubadour-ing across the countryside. To be frank, I’m not sure what he’s doing back here, only that – well, he hinted he was going through a bit of a tough time.”

“A tough time?” Geralt echoes, incredulous. His mind briefly skips over the memory of Jaskier surrounded by undressed women at the Rosebud.

Shani nods sombrely. “I shouldn’t say, really, it’s terribly personal – but, well. He said he hadn’t written a new song in _months_. Barely plays his lute anymore, either.”

Geralt frowns. That _was_ strange – he could not remember a time when Jaskier had put down his lute for more than a day at a time, and even then, only when separated from it by force of man, nature, or most frequently, magic.

“Writer’s block,” Shani says sympathetically. “I suppose it happens, even to the greats.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but doesn’t comment further.

“Maybe he’s in love,” Shani jests, smirking. Geralt scoffs.

“Jaskier’s been in love with more women than there are bubbles in this ale.”

Shani laughs at that. “You aren’t wrong, Geralt. Thank goodness he never turned his attentions on _me._ I’ve seen his seduction routine, and you could not pay me enough crowns to be on the other end of it!”

She does a greatly exaggerated impression of Jaskier twirling his moustache and winking at Geralt, and Geralt finds himself chuckling despite himself.

“Shall I get you another glass?” Geralt says, nodding towards her empty tankard. Shani looks regretful, the expression ageing her face abruptly.

“I should be getting back to my home, to pack my things,” she says mournfully. “Duty calls – I'm to be ready to leave at the ringing of Compline for the journey south. If you ever find yourself back in Oxenfurt, though..."  
  
She pauses, and then seems to steel herself with new resolve. "My house is on the main road up from the Western Gate, on the left – just on the corner of the road that leads down to the harbour. You can’t miss it. In case you... have more time, in future."

“The directions seem rather complicated,” Geralt says, smiling slightly. “How about I walk you there now? Just to be sure I know where it is.”

Shani’s smile is soft, but bright. “Alright, Witcher. It’s a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oxenfurt is a fusion of the book and game, but geographically the overall layout is based on the game – i.e. the Academy is on its own island, rather than in the centre of the town.
> 
> In this timeline, Shani and Geralt never met in Vizima (events from the first _Witcher_ game).
> 
> The first song Jaskier sings is from _Sword of Destiny_ , not an original work.
> 
> Radovid’s situation is heavily based on his motives and whereabouts in _The Witcher 3_.
> 
> The ‘witches’ in Crookback Bog are based on the crones in _The Witcher 3_.


	5. Birke - Part Two

Jaskier had promised to meet at sundown, but when Geralt enters the Rosebud he cannot see his friend seated anywhere in the atrium. He heads for the backroom, and asks the madam if she has seen the bard anywhere. Looking up from a logbook of some kind, she smirks knowingly at him.

“Oh, aye. He’ll be down soon. He’s keeping _all_ the girls busy tonight.”

Upstairs, Geralt hears feminine screams of ecstasy.

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

The sound of many running feet echoes on the wooden boards overhead. Geralt follows the direction of the sound, tracking his quarry as it moves out to the atrium. Soon enough, a pack of girls comes racing down the main stairs, moving like a school of colourful fish. They shriek and holler with incredible vigour.

“Master Witcher!” screams one the girls with glee. “We got you a present!”

They push one girl to the front of the group, and Geralt has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Jaskier is fully made-up and dressed in the finest garb, cheap jewellery sparkling from his face and hands. His face has been covered in powder, and his lips are stained wine red. The most striking thing is the way they have lined his eyes with kohl – the black makes his wide blue eyes stand out starkly. A blonde wig, neatly combed, frames his face. Geralt’s eyes scan downwards, to where some shapely lumps have been placed on Jaskier’s chest beneath a fine blue corset.

It is, if Geralt is honest, a remarkable transformation. If this had not been his own plan, he would not have recognised Jaskier at all.

“You never thought of disguising yourself like this?” Geralt asks. “It’s quite effective. Would hide you from all the husbands and fathers chasing you down.”

He leans forward, taking a strand of the wig and inspecting it idly. The action is an excuse not to look at his friend more than he has to – the change is odd and disquieting, and Geralt is not sure he likes it.

“It’s not exactly a dress you can run in,” Jaskier snaps. “I can barely breathe, come to that.”

“Yes,” Geralt says vaguely, examining the fine beading on the dress. “Understandable.”

He feels Jaskier staring at him. “Geralt, am I that hideous? If I don’t pass muster with you, perhaps we should just use one of the–”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says abruptly. “Don’t worry about it.”

The girls giggle. Geralt ignores them. “Let’s go,” he mutters, dragging Jaskier alongside him out into the street.

A man passing them on his way into the Rosebud whistles appreciatively, and Geralt clenches his teeth.

“Ow, Geralt,” Jaskier complains. “You’re hurting my arm!”

“Sorry,” the witcher grunts, lessening his grip only slightly.

They walk like that towards the Western Gate, which is thankfully not too far. A couple of soldiers catcall at Jaskier as they pass, but most notice Geralt’s stormy face before they can make much more of it. Geralt wonders if the courtesans didn’t have _too_ much fun making the bard into one of their own – he’s radiantly pretty, in a sort of innocently proud way no courtesan has ever been. In this dress, he has more in common with the princesses and ladies Geralt has met during his travels. He supposes that makes a sort of sense – Jaskier was once one of the nobility. Perhaps this is what he would have looked like, if he had been born a girl.

“Geralt,” Jaskier snaps. “If you don’t let go of me, no criminal or monster or _anything_ is going to bother, because they’ll take one look at your face and go screaming in the other direction.”

Geralt obliges immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Forgot myself.”

“Does it offend you that much to see me like this?” Jaskier asks quietly. “I wouldn’t have done it if I had known you would be this angry about it. I – I didn’t know things like this offended you.”

“They _don’t_ ,” Geralt blurts out, before he can stop himself. “I just – never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” Jaskier says, a little coolly. “Well, I’m going to wander over there out in the open, and you can do your witcher thing. Try to catch whatever it is before they get me; I’ve got a dagger in my boots, but the damn dress doesn’t let me bend over or move my arms at all.”

“Fine,” Geralt echoes, wondering why it is that lately he seems to trip into arguments with his friends so easily. He feels as though he’s back with Yennefer.

Jaskier makes a great show of hanging about the bridge looking for customers. Seemingly abandoning all previous embarrassment, he digs into the role with relish, waving sultrily at passers-by. A total of eight men eagerly ask for his company before the bard shoos them away with an outrageous asking price. The ninth man actually accepts the high charge, until Jaskier stammers a furious excuse about forgetting double rates for the month of March.

Geralt is about to save him from the resulting argument when he notices the sounds of a struggle somewhere nearby. He creeps towards the sound, and catches two figures walking swiftly towards the university, one talking in a low voice and holding the other’s arm forcibly, dragging them roughly along. The man doing the talking has a pronounced limp.

“Fuck,” swears Geralt under his breath, and then turns back for Jaskier.

“And I was just going to fuck him, when he said he had – oh, thank god. Ge- Gendall! Over here!” Jaskier cries, waving frantically at Geralt from behind the hulking figure of his rejected customer.

“This one’s mine,” Geralt growls, gesturing with the full force of Axii, and the man steps back at once.

“Of course, sorry sir,” he stutters, and Geralt grabs Jaskier’s arm once more.

“Just missed him,” Geralt explains as he breaks into a run. “Going towards the Academy. Got to catch up before they disappear somewhere or something happens to the victim.”

“Geralt, slow down a bit, I can’t run – the dress –”

“Just a bit further,” Geralt bites out as they dart around the corner to the southern side of Oxenfurt. As they close on the bridge to the university, he slows, and holds up a finger to his lips. Jaskier nods, panting slightly and bracing his hands on his thighs. They lurk a small distance away from the crossing, beside the walled promenade that separates the city from the sea. Geralt peers out of an arrowslit, and watches as three guards march up and down the causeway.

Since the Academy closed, soldiers had been placed upon the bridge and around the island to prevent people from entering. But the tide is out, and in the moonlight Geralt notices a strip of sand running right underneath the overpass. If the guards on either side look down at the right angle they’ll be spotted – but Geralt is certain that whoever is moving hostages across to the Academy buildings knows the guard rotations. It is likely that they will be able to enter the university grounds without meeting a single soldier along the way.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, “is there a passage close by that leads to the beach?”

Jaskier looks at him, and immediately sees Geralt’s plan. He grins.

“Follow me.”

He leads Geralt back the way they came, away from the patrol. Halfway to the Western Gate, he abruptly turns towards the edge of the promenade, and points to a small gap in the stone wall.

Suddenly, a guard comes around the corner of the walkway, and both of them freeze in shock as he calls out.

“Oi! You!”

They both turn to face the guard, and Geralt grits his teeth. Fighting would arouse the attention of the other soldiers – they’ll have to explain their way out, or kill him quietly.

“Out for an evening stroll?” asks the guard as he approaches, looking between them suspiciously. Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier possessively, and gives the guard his best approximation of a smile.

“It’s a romantic evening, wouldn’t you say?” Geralt replies, his voice injected with forced friendliness.

“Not really,” says the guard, stopping in front of them. He leans down at peers into Jaskier’s eyes. “You alright, miss? You here of your own free will?”

 _Why do the ones with any sense of honour always turn up when they’re least needed?_ Geralt thinks, peeved. The silence stretches a bit as Jaskier hesitates, and then –

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, in the best approximation of a woman’s voice he can muster. “Yes, definitely. Have you seen my man?” he says, and when Geralt looks down it is to find Jaskier batting fake eyelashes at him that bounce about ridiculously and get tangled with strands of his wig.

“Oh, aye,” the guard says, looking a bit put out. “I see. Well, best be on your way then.”

 _Perhaps he wanted to make a knightly rescue tonight,_ Geralt thinks. _Or maybe he is just lonely._

“Thank you, noble guard,” Jaskier says, beaming. “Your country salutes you.”

“Mind you don’t go fornicatin’ in public,” the guard adds as an afterthought, “that’s a crime ‘round here, you know.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Geralt says, firmly. He pushes Jaskier towards the gap in the wall, and tugs the bard even closer to his side.

“Isn’t the view lovely?” Geralt says, loudly enough for the guard to hear.

“Oh, terribly,” Jaskier says in his falsetto. “But you are even _more_ lovely, my dear.”

Geralt watches the guard move away out of the corner of his eye. When he has determined he is out of earshot, he yanks Jaskier to attention and hurdles over the crumbled barrier. Luckily, on the other side Geralt’s feet immediately find purchase on narrow stone steps that jut out from the seawall.

“Do you think we should have put on more of a show for him?” Jaskier quips as they scramble down the steps, eager to clear the sightline of the causeway.

Geralt huffs. “Probably bored out of his mind patrolling Oxenfurt. I imagine seeing mating pigeons would have been enough to entertain him.”

They walk briskly across the beach to the sandbar, the spray from the ocean lashing into their face. The crossing is already partially submerged, water lapping at their boots as they cross. Geralt expects in a few hours the path will once again be vulnerable to the merciless currents of the Pontar Delta. Thankfully, no guards seem to sight them, and they are able to dart around the shore of Oxenfurt Academy without further issue.

On the eastern shore, Geralt sights fresh footprints in the sand, not yet touched by the tide. They hasten their pace around the stony walls of the university, following the trail. When the footprints suddenly fade into the grasses lining the seawall, Geralt stops. He peers around the shrubbery and notices stones that have recently fallen, freshly crushing the plants underneath.

He glances up, and notices a window lying open at the top of a tower. He points it out silently to Jaskier, before bringing his finger to his lips to remind the bard to be silent.

Jaskier, in turn, waves his hands up in an exasperated expression indicating Geralt should go first. He does so, making use of his enhanced senses to pick out the best stones for their feet and hands to use as grips. At the top, he takes a brief glance inside the window and is relieved to neither see nor hear anyone inside; he shimmies himself in through the opening and waits for Jaskier to do the same.

The bard tumbles in with a distinct lack of grace.

“Have you–” Jaskier hisses in between deep breaths, “any – idea – how fucking hard it is – to climb in _this_?” He indicates the blue corset and dress, which have now endured some tears and stains along the bottom.

Geralt puts his finger to his lips again warningly, but finds himself biting back an amused grin despite himself. Seeing the bard so flustered and out of sorts has a strangely erotic quality in his current getup. As soon as Jaskier has regained his breath, however, he shoves away the thought and opens the door to a corridor outside.

At once, he hears voices further down the hall, and both Geralt and Jaskier exchange a significant look. Geralt draws his silver sword, and creeps towards the sound. Beside him, Jaskier makes a large swooping movement to retrieve his dagger from his boots.

As they close on the entrance to the occupied room, they nod to each other, and both slam the door open.

“Nobody move!” yells Jaskier, wielding his dagger with wild stabbing motions.

Inside, is a room filled with cobwebs, mildewed furniture, and half-assembled bedding. Several people are gathered around a fireplace, and they swing around to confront the intruders.

“Who are you?” the man in the middle asks angrily, with traces of a Toussaint accent. “You witch hunters?”

“That’s Geralt of Rivia!” exclaims a halfling sitting in a couch. She beams at Geralt. “He’s no witch hunter – hell, he’s in bed with a sorceress!”

“We need to have words about how many of your songs focus on Yen and I,” Geralt says in a low whisper.

“Not now, Geralt!” Jaskier hisses back under his breath.

“What are you doing here?” the man in the middle asks, more confused now than angry.

“I – could ask you the same question!” Jaskier says, still brandishing his dagger out in front of him. “You’ve been kidnapping these – er, poor people – and your evil has gone on long enough!”

Geralt ignores him and lowers Jaskier’s dagger arm with his own. “I’ll admit, you don’t look very kidnapped.” He looks at the halfling, and says “Are you by chance Terri Noderbilt of Gors Velen?”

“That’s me!” she gasps. “How do you know me?”

“You’re reported missing,” Geralt says, and his eyes sweep the room again. “I don’t suppose someone would care to explain how a group of missing people end up in a room together in Oxenfurt Academy by their own will?”

The man in the centre sighs, and rubs his temples. “Sit down,” he offers, pointing the two of them to an empty, moth-eaten couch. “I’ve had a long evening and I can’t be bothered to stand up for the remainder of it.” His voice is tinged with the accented vowels of Toussaint.

He limps across to a cabinet and pours himself a drink. Geralt eyes him warily. “You attacked a Rosebud courtesan a few nights ago.”

“I wasn’t attacking her; I was just trying to help her!” the man snaps. “Got a nasty wound for my efforts, too.”

“Odd way to help people, picking them off the streets like that,” Geralt retorts. Jaskier, meanwhile, has accepted a glass of red wine offered to him by the man. Geralt spares a moment to glower at him but Jaskier just shrugs by way of reply.

“He’s helping us escape the Order,” one of the other women pipes up. “Getting us out of here before they get us!”

“Order?” Jaskier asks, while at the same time Geralt says “Start from the beginning.”

“I was getting to it,” the man says brusquely, sitting himself down in an armchair opposite Geralt. “I take it you know of the anti-magic sentiment around here. It’s worse in Novigrad, always has been, but even Oxenfurt’s taken to it since the students and academics left.”

Geralt thinks of the woman at the Alchemy, and the cramped quarters of the secret, underground storeroom in the Three Little Bells. “Thought the Order of the Flaming Rose had been reformed.”

“Do those witch hunters lining the streets look reformed to you?” spits a man in the back.

The man in the armchair sighs. “Worse than reformed, they’re growing into their own political power. People angry about the state of the war, the state of the world, joining up in droves to blame and hunt down anything they find unnatural. Radovid encourages it from the decks of his gilded ship, and the Church funds it all from the coffers of Novigrad. Melitele’s tits, the Church basically tells their congregations to join up.”

“And you’re all targets of the witch hunters?” Geralt asks, looking around the room again. “None of you look like mages to me.”

 _Although_ , he privately admits, _there is something about their leader that seems_ too _beautiful._ Perhaps his long, lustrous black curls are simply the result of his Toussaint heritage.

“I’m just an herbalist!” exclaims Terri Noderbilt. “But they aren’t stopping with mages – they’re taking everyone! Vampires, dopplers… but even alchemists, and academics too!”

Some of the group nod, and a couple express their own ordinary occupations. Now that Geralt looks again, he sees that a few do look extremely scholarly, with circular spectacles and ink-stained robes.

“What’s your role in all this?” Geralt asks the man in the armchair. “You’re the one organising this evacuation?”

“No, no,” the man laughs. “I’m just a middle man. Philippa Eilhart is the one in charge – she must have a network of spies watching the witch hunters’ orders, because I get instructions every two weeks with a list of people the Church wants captured.”

“I didn’t realise the Sorceress of Tretogor was so generous of heart,” Geralt says cynically.

The man shrugs. “I suppose everyone needs allies, in times like this.”

“Arnaud, you’re no mere middle man,” one of the scholars sniffs. “Don’t pretend you don’t have a stake in all this. Tell him.” When the man doesn’t reply, the scholar turns to Geralt and announces, “Arnaud’s a higher vampire.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow at the pale man in the middle. He spreads his hands hastily in a gesture of peace. “Now, now, Witcher. I’m no threat – I don’t drink human blood and I certainly don’t hurt people.”

Geralt is about to growl out a reply when he is interrupted by the halfling, who lets out a little squeak as she stares at Jaskier.

“Seven poxes,” Terri says suddenly. “Are you a man?”

Everyone turns to look at Jaskier, whose wig and make-up has remained remarkably in place throughout the evening, and as such is still giving him the appearance of a doe-eyed girl.

“It’s a long story,” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier winces beside him.

“I thought his voice was a bit off,” agrees one of the men, and the others continue to peer curiously at Jaskier, whose cheeks are now turning a richer pink than the blush powder on them.

“Never mind that,” Geralt interjects. “Did you all truly just vanish without telling anyone? If I’m not wrong, someone here left a wife and newborn child.”

“That’s me,” says the man who had just spoken. “I didn’t have much choice – Arnaud only has enough time to grab one person a night, when the tide’s out, so he tells us to go with him or remain and risk being captured. I chose to leave,” he says, shrugging. “Was planning on sending a letter once I got safely away, but Arnaud said sending a note while I was still in Oxenfurt was too risky.” He looks pointedly at the man in the armchair.

“So it is,” Arnaud says. “But the ship to take you is due any day now.”

“A boat to take you away from Redania’s clutches,” Geralt concludes. “Philippa Eilhart gives you warning, and free passage for escape, out of the generosity of helping the needy?”

Arnaud shakes his head. “The passage is in exchange for swearing fealty to her name. If she calls on these refugees – when she calls on them – they must heed her, and join her cause.”

Geralt notices some of those in the room look a little uncomfortable at this last statement, while others are unbothered by it.

“You aren’t soldiers,” Jaskier says curtly. “An academic has no use in a battlefield.”

“An unarmed man is better than none at all,” Arnaud replies, shrugging. “And quite a few of the refugees have magic to some degree. Some are vampires, some dopplers – the latter make excellent spies. Some are herbalists, who can be medics.”

“I do not like that Eilhart seems to be saving you from one war only to throw you back into it on her side,” Geralt murmurs. “But I suppose at least this way you shall have your freedom for a while.”

“It’s no bad deal,” a woman says mildly. Her skin is pale, and her cheekbones high and drawn. Geralt assumes her to be one of the previously mentioned vampires. “Arnaud saved me when some witch hunters tied me to a flagpole. They meant to leave me there until dawn. Of course, the sun wouldn’t burn a vampire like me – but. The intent to kill was very clear. I’m sure I, and many here, owe Philippa Eilhart my life.”

There are murmurs of assent in the room, and Geralt looks to Jaskier.

“What do you think?” he asks in an undertone.

Jaskier shrugs. “We came here for a monster and found people running from one. I don’t think anyone here needs saving – they’re already being saved.”

Geralt gives his friend a single, brief nod. He turns to address the rest of the room, raising his voice once more. “As you have said, it is your deal to agree to. If there is nobody here who needs my help, then we will take our leave.”

Arnaud abruptly takes out a small hourglass from his doublet, and inspects it for a moment. “No,” he sighs. “You won’t. There’s no safe route out at the moment. I assume you followed me back here, but the timing of my crossing was calculated – the currents are high enough now that anyone who tried swimming at this hour would be swept straight out to sea.”

Jaskier balks. “Then, how do we get back out?”

“You’ll have to wait until morning,” Arnaud replies. “Having said that, there’s no more room in here – we barely have enough space to stand between us, let alone sleep.”

He pauses and raps his fingers against the hourglass, considering. “We’ll put you in the south tower. That’s tower’s been abandoned for years; no guards bother to patrol it. As it happens, the guards are usually less interested in keeping people in than keeping people out.” He laughs derisively, and the men and women around him nod in grim acknowledgement.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asks, frowning.

One of the scholarly men scoffs. “Redania is scared of what we do here. They’re more interested in making sure the academics trapped in the dungeons aren’t up to anything nefarious.” His eyes roll up in scorn behind his glasses. “Poor Shakeslock has been down there for months, doing what he can to appropriate black magic without the use of mages.”

“Appropriate it?”

The academic twists his lips into a perverse smile. “Oh, you didn’t know? Radovid may be mad, but he’s not stupid. He knows well that the mages have advantages he will never possess, and that fighting a war without those advantages will mean he loses it. So he has turned to this new form of magic – magic formed in machinery, controlling chaos through steel and gears. Shakeslock is part of a team seeking to channel chaos into order through these new inventions. So far, they have succeeded only a little – devices that can transfer messages across an infinite distance in no time at all.”

Jaskier gapes openly. “So – _anyone_ could use magic?”

The man shrugs. “It is still experimental. Exchanging messages from one side of the Continent to the other only required that two devices be tuned to each other – and the casting of such a tuning spell still requires a mage. So Radovid is still reliant upon the magic-users he hates, at least for now.”

Geralt’s heart falls in his chest, as he imagines Radovid and Emhyr unleashing weapons loaded with dark magical energy upon battlefields full of unsuspecting, defenceless soldiers.

“Be that as it may,” Arnaud interjects. “The guard will be switching over soon, and the midnight shift are far more wary and vigilant than their evening counterparts. I’d like to get to the tower and back before they’ve settled into their new patrol. I’ll take you there now, if you’ll let me.”

“Of course,” Geralt says agreeably.

“Then,” Arnaud says, getting up and gesturing to the doorway. “If you’ll follow me…”

“Bye, Geralt of Rivia!” Terri says breathlessly as they leave. “Stjepan said you were a good man! If you ever need a place to stay, my home will always be open to you!”

“You don’t even know where your new home will be,” Geralt hears another man say scathingly to her as the door closes behind them.

* * *

It takes them half an hour to get to the southern side of the university, due to their need to avoid the Redanian regulars patrolling the grounds and Arnaud’s cumbersome limp.

Arnaud takes them down to the basement of the tower, and out of the basement through a cellar door. The entrance is concealed by bushes, so they are able to watch the guard routes unobserved until the path is clear. They dart around the grounds, both hindered and helped by the architectural planning of the university. The lanes and greeneries are wide and unencumbered by narrow, dark alleyways of the city, leaving them vulnerable to being spotted. At the same time, the labyrinthine rows of stacked canals and bridges allow for the trio to hide from passing soldiers in shadowed ditches and under narrow overpasses.

Geralt notices that the facilities grow more run down as they enter the southern section, with walls having been knocked in and structural beams lobotomised. Of particular note is the wall outside the ancient student dormitories, where statues have been taken from their plinths.

“Probably using the raw material for the war effort,” Jaskier whispers to Geralt angrily.

Arnaud takes them into the shelter of the dormitories, where it seems no guards think to patrol. They pass by several corridors, and Geralt sees that some stairwells are in such a state of disrepair that they have been cordoned off. Eventually, at the very edge of the floor, they reach a winding staircase that has been filled with fallen rubble. Arnaud, however, leaps over the scattered stones and leaps onto the edge of the higher steps, pushing himself up and clambering onto the ledge. Geralt and Jaskier follow his lead, and together they climb the stairs to the highest floor. At the top, they find a small, empty room with three bare pallets on the floor and a broken window. Glass shards from the break are scattered on the floor beneath it, having apparently never been cleaned up. 

“Afraid this isn’t the most comfortable room, but it is the safest,” Arnaud says, shrugging. “There’s only one way into this section of the tower and the guards have no idea it’s accessible at all. If it weren’t so small and hard to climb, I’d have the others staying here too.”

“We appreciate it,” Geralt says, nodding to the Toussaintois man. “What is the best way out of the castle from here?”

Arnaud frowns. “There are several ways out, but most are patrolled regularly by guards – don’t bother even thinking about the Philosopher’s Gate or anywhere near it. In my opinion, the best route is through the old aqueduct tunnels. I’ll take you to an unguarded vent in the morning – from there, you can follow the culvert straight to the mainland. It’s wide enough to fit you easily; I’ve used it myself many times, when I’ve had to leave our hideout during the day. Unfortunately, the flow of waste water at high tide can make it dangerous to traverse at night. Lost a friend three weeks ago to drowning that way.”

“The aqueduct?” Jaskier asks. “You mean we have to use the _sewerage_ tunnels?”

“Better smelling a bit foul than risk getting caught by the guard,” Arnaud says pointedly. “Or, more to the point, risk revealing our location to them.”

“Unbelievable,” Jaskier mutters. “Wish I’d fucking stayed in bed. First the dress, now this.”

“We’ll worry about it in the morning,” Geralt says soothingly.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, after dawn,” Arnaud continues, lighting a dusty lantern on a table for them. “Don’t stray from this room – easy to get lost in some parts of the buildings, even for those of us familiar with it. Good night until the morrow,” he adds, and waves a gesture of farewell.

“Farewell, Arnaud. And thank you,” Geralt says sombrely.

The vampire nods, and swings about quickly. He leaps back down the staircase, and they hear the echo of his footsteps fading back into the maze of corridors. 

“So,” Jaskier says as soon as they are alone. “The dress was completely unnecessary. I endured the greatest humiliation of my life, ruined a perfectly nice gown, and–”

“I cannot imagine it was the greatest humiliation of your life,” Geralt replies, leaning his swords against the back wall and unclipping the outer layers of his armour. “I’ve heard your songs.”

“I wish I knew whether that was an insult to the quality of my work, or the quality of my life,” Jaskier mutters. “Oh – Geralt, would you help me with this? I suppose this is why women need so many handmaids.”

Geralt turns to find Jaskier gesturing at the front of his corset. The wig has been unceremoniously ripped from his head, though several of the clips which had been holding it in place are still sticking out of Jaskier’s hair at odd angles. Its removal has made Jaskier recognisably _Jaskier_ again – now at least, Geralt feels his friend is back with him, albeit in a great deal of stage makeup and clothing. 

Jaskier holds perfectly still as Geralt removes his gloves, and starts picking at the many knots and bows on the corset front. He notices after a moment, that Jaskier is being unusually silent – in fact, for the bard, a full minute of silence is downright bizarre.

“What?” Geralt grunts, risking a glance up at Jaskier’s face. Jaskier quickly rearranges his features, but not before Geralt sees what looks like an expression of awe and fear.

 _Jaskier was lying when he said he didn’t fear me,_ Geralt thinks despondently. He can smell it on him; in between the layers of dirt and sweat is the scent of fear. Geralt associates it with rabbits and deer, wide-eyed and frozen in front of a salivating beast. _Perhaps he finally sees me for who I am._

“You know I would never hurt you,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier’s heart rate seems to notch up yet again, and Geralt is once more reminded of cornered game. Jaskier’s kohled eyes are just as wide, just as terrified. For some reason, Geralt’s own heart starts tremoring with anxiety, as though it is attempting to mirror the pace of his friend’s.

“I – I know,” Jaskier manages to say, swallowing thickly. “Hurry up and finish untying this thing, would you?”

Geralt does, and at last they manage to take the corset and sleeves off Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier takes several deep breaths, and arches his naked back against a stone wall.

“Ugh, that’s cold. Thank the gods. I can breathe again. I can _move_ again!” He shimmies the skirt of the dress down his body, and steps out of it, stretching his arms in delight. Underneath the skirt, he had been wearing one of his skin-tight pants – but his chest is naked to the cold air, and the bard is already shivering.

“You’ll be too cold,” Geralt says, annoyed. “We should have asked for quilts, or rugs.”

“It’s no matter,” Jaskier shrugs, his body spasming slightly as a gust of chill air goes through the broken window.

“I’m not tending to you if you get sick,” Geralt warns, although it’s an empty threat and they both know it. He takes off his shirt, and looks pointedly at his friend. “Sleep with your back to mine, and we’ll put the dress layers over us to keep the chill out.”

Jaskier just nods to this, apparently conserving even the energy required for talking, and they lie down on one of the pallets together, back to back. Luckily for Jaskier, Geralt’s metabolism means he gives off more body heat than a bear, so Geralt isn’t as worried as he might otherwise be. His friend turns suddenly, and snuggles up to Geralt from behind. One arm winds around Geralt’s, resting on top of the witcher’s side. It is – almost – an embrace.

Geralt intends merely to meditate. To his surprise, however, he falls asleep almost immediately, wrapped in the comfort of Jaskier’s body pressed against his own.

* * *

Geralt startles from his slumber only a few hours later. It is still night; the barest hints of purple dawn the only sign of time’s passage. Beside him, Jaskier is snoring gently. Geralt tenses as he realises what has awoken him - the distant smell of acrid smoke.

“Jaskier,” he whispers, tapping at his friend’s shoulder. “Jaskier.”

“Wassamatter?” Jaskier slurs, cracking open one eye to glare at Geralt. “’Msleepin’.”

Geralt creeps to the window and listens carefully. Now that Jaskier’s snoring has ceased, he can hear the distant sounds of swords clashing, and – there – a woman’s scream.

He wraps his fist in his discarded shirt and punches what remains of the glass out of the way, enough so he can swing his head out of the opening. He cranes his head left, and sees a great fire billowing from the roof of the eastern tower – the very same tower they had been in only hours before.

“We have to leave,” Geralt says, buckling his armour and weapons back on. “I think the Redanian soldiers have found the others.”

“Oh by the balls of Saint Gregory–” Jaskier mutters, fiddling with the dress and sighing. “Pox take it. Geralt, I’m going to have to leave this, I can’t possibly put it back on.”

“Leave it, then.” Geralt opens the door to the outside stairwell and pauses, listening for signs of movement. When none are forthcoming, he gestures to Jaskier to follow him out.

“Any idea how we get out of here?” Geralt asks. “We could stand and fight, but I don’t think we’d stand a chance against the guards.” 

“I wouldn’t, you mean,” Jaskier says bitterly. “Guess I’m holding you back from your hero duties again.”

Geralt makes a frustrated noise. “Jaskier–”

“Not now, Geralt. Follow me. I was at this university for years; I know the way around.”

Geralt obeys, and Jaskier leads the way down the crumbling stairwell. Instead of retracing their steps through the dormitories however, he opens a door onto a wooden balcony. They both peer at it in the dark, but see no movement – Jaskier motions for Geralt to follow him, and he climbs onto the branch of a large oak tree.

“Not as easy as it was when I was younger,” he mutters. “Had a tryst here a few times, although in later years it was – oh, bloody hell, these branches are weaker than I remember.”

“Shh,” Geralt hisses, trying to listen for any approaching soldiers. They clamber down the tree trunk to the beach, and Jaskier looks towards the ruined aqueduct that carries water from Oxenfurt Academy back to the mainland.

“The elves once used it to carry fresh water from a reservoir at the top of Oxenfurt, allowing fresh water to flow through the city, island and mainland,” Jaskier explains softly, shaking his head. “Now we use what remains of it to carry sewerage out of the Academy. How times change, eh?”

“Will we be able to get across?” Geralt whispers. He points towards dark figures at the base of the aqueduct, milling around. They are barely visible by the light of the moon and stars, but Geralt counts at least twenty.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes, squinting. “We won’t be able to get past them without a fight.” He looks back at Geralt, and his face hardens with resolve. “As it happens… look, when I was thinking last night about how to avoid the sewers, I remembered another way we can get out. It’s risky, but it might work if we manage to avoid guards on our way back inside.”

“Back inside?” Geralt echoes, his gaze darting between Jaskier and the spout of flame spiralling out from the eastern tower.

Jaskier nods, and climbs back up the tree they had descended from. Geralt follows, watching the bard as he ascends to make sure he doesn’t slip. They clamber out onto the balcony, and this time Jaskier leads through the dormitories, weaving in and out of empty rooms. They follow winding corridors through the buildings and duck from doorway to doorway, some which open into wide lecture halls while others lead to mysterious laboratories with all manner of potions, plants and bodies. Before every turn, Geralt peers around to check they are alone. However, for all their caution, they pass no guards on the way. It seems all units are being concentrated on the eastern tower.

After descending more stairwells, they come at last to a bath chamber. It is an impressive room, made to imitate ancient elven architecture. Large stone pillars hold up pointed arches, decorated with small stone pixies. In the centre lies an enormous basin filled with clear, dark water.

“Ah, great memories,” Jaskier says absentmindedly. He wanders through the chamber, tapping stone columns as he goes. “Alright, it’s just behind–” he pauses, and grunts as he pulls at a stone in one of the pillars. “Here!” The stone comes free with some effort, and Geralt is surprised to see a part of the main wall fold away, revealing a secret passageway.

“How did something like this stay a secret?” Geralt asks, amazed.

“Oh, it didn’t,” Jaskier replies happily. “Everyone in the Academy knew about it. Apparently, it was built before women were allowed on university soil – you know, so they’d organise for local whores to be brought across every month and there’d be a big – uh, _celebration of learning,_ so to speak. Carnal learning. Took part in some re-enactments, while I was a student here,” he adds, misty-eyed with fond nostalgia. “I never used the passage though – it is unpleasant enough that it’s only used for hazing these days, or dares. You know how young men can be.”

The passageway behind the wall is old, and not well-used. The dim light from the bathroom doesn’t reach very far, only illuminating the tunnel a little in front of them. Geralt is suddenly very aware of the fact they are underground – sea water is leaking down the cave walls and has created a mossy blanket across the surface as he touches it. The path is slippery, cramped, uneven, and treacherous, and Geralt understands why Arnaud suggested the sewer route over this one, if he even knew it existed.

“No torches in the walls?” Geralt asks half-heartedly, and Jaskier shakes his head. “I’ll have to use a Cat potion. I don’t have enough for both of us, so you’ll have to stay close to me – hold my hand, I’ll guide you across, and catch you if you fall.”

“Such lack of faith in my balance,” Jaskier complains, and Geralt shoots him a pointed look that the bard likely can’t see. He takes his friend’s hand, and notices he’s shivering once again, still wearing only a thin undershirt and his brown wool leggings.

“Onwards, then,” Jaskier says, as Geralt downs a potion from his belt. Immediately the path in front of him becomes lighter, the stone floor extending out for a while before disappearing behind a series of curves downwards. Geralt supposes it must go deeper underground in order to safely bypass the riverbed.

They move in silence, Geralt still waiting for any sign of soldiers behind them or ahead. If Jaskier is right, and most people at the university knew about the passageway, then he hasn’t eliminated the possibility they might be cornered at some point in the future and have to fight their way out.

It takes them over an hour of careful stepping, pausing, and continuing on. Geralt murmurs a few times when there is a large rock, a water puddle or other impediment, but Jaskier remains mute. Twice, the walls and ceiling grow so narrow that Geralt gets stuck, and has to crawl on the ground to get through.

Finally, _finally,_ they see daylight ahead and the path turns upward, towards the light.

“Any idea where this comes out?” Geralt asks quietly, turning to his companion. Jaskier shakes his head, and drops Geralt’s hand in order to take out his dagger from his boot.

“Hope it’s somewhere friendly,” Jaskier quips. His joking expression falters when he notices Geralt looking tense. “What?”

“Smoke,” Geralt says, breathing it in. “A lot of it. Let’s hurry.”

Now that they can see the path ahead, they walk as swiftly as they can up the winding passageway. Sand and leaves soon start to crunch under their feet, and they at last reach an opening that seems to be hidden behind a copse of wild grass bushes. They walk cautiously through it, out onto an abandoned section of beach on the western bank of the mainland. Geralt squints in the light of dawn, his Cat potion momentarily blinding him.

“Oh, gods. Oh, gods. Oh, gods.” Jaskier stammers, aghast. Geralt follows his gaze.

Across the Delta, all of Oxenfurt Academy is aflame. Dark smoke is being carried by the wind across the sky, shadowing Oxenfurt city and coating the morning sky in ash. The sun glows a menacing orange. Distantly, Geralt can hear the sounds of tolling bells and men shouting to each other.

“Do you think the refugees are okay?” Jaskier asks weakly.

Geralt doesn’t reply.

* * *

What seems like the entire remaining population of Oxenfurt has gathered on the south side of the island to watch the university burn. The fire has accelerated; one tower has collapsed under the heat, and Geralt expects others will follow. Several townsfolk in fishing boats seem to be having heated arguments with the Redanian soldiers on the shores of the Academy beaches, with one clash resulting in a short-lived fight that ends with five of the civilians keeling in handcuffs.

“Gods,” Jaskier repeats, for what seems like the hundredth time. “The library’s gone, look – that’s the building over there. Gods. All those books. All that history.”

Geralt notices a commotion behind them, and makes his way towards it, parting the tightly packed crowd as he goes.

“Make way for the King! Make way for the King!” cries a herald.

Geralt comes to a halt right in front of a band of soliders, and yells, “Radovid!”

The soldiers start advancing on him, but Radovid waves a hand. “Allow him through,” the king orders. Jaskier tries to follow him, but the guards block him and the bard retreats with a muttered apology to them.

The soldiers part, and Radovid faces him with a derisive sneer. “Geralt of Rivia.”

“What have you done?” Geralt says with barely restrained anger. “Those are your soldiers burning the university down, are they not, _sire_? The prize jewel of knowledge of Redania?”

The king shakes his head. “I regret the loss,” he says. “Luckily, due to our war time evacuations, the only people inside were heretics. They were using it as a base from which to plot against my rule. The losses to Redania’s history and culture are monumental, I agree, but it was the only way to ensure a divisive victory against those who would undermine the crown.”

“Plots?” Geralt says, outraged. “What plots? As far as I’m aware, the only people in those buildings were defenceless academics, there under your own order.”

“Interesting you say so,” Radovid says. He nods at one of his guards, who rummages in a sack he is holding to pull out a blackened head.

The face is charred, and bloodied, but Geralt recognises the dark curls and sharp cheekbones. Behind him, he hears Jaskier gasp.

“We found this vampire and a coven of _unnaturals_ hiding out in the Northern Tower,” Radovid bellows, addressing his comments now to the crowd around them. “Took forty of my men to capture them, and some escaped. Dopplers, witches, monsters of all sorts.”

The crowd titter around them, and one man cries “Burn them all!” The chant is taken up by a few others, who repeat “Burn them! Burn them!” and Geralt hears one yell out, “Kill the Witcher! Kill the abomination!”

“So you see, Geralt,” the King continues. “Burning the university was my last option, but it’s an action I had to take to protect the people of Oxenfurt from the coven of monsters that were breeding here. You understand, I trust; after all, your enemies are the same as mine. We hunt the same prey, do we not?”

Geralt and the king stare at each other for a moment, while the crowd looks on with hushed whispers. “Of course,” Geralt says finally, lowering his eyes to the cobbled pavement.

“I’m glad we can understand each other,” Radovid says, folding his arms. “It will sadden you to know that we have not found Philippa Eilhart yet, although some of those we captured bore her crest. I have hope that our interrogations of the survivors will yield some new results, but if they do not, my contract with you stands open.”

He nods at the guards, and they resume their position around their king. “Good day, Geralt,” the King says mildly, and the retinue continue their way towards the university bridge.

“Bastard,” Jaskier hisses, as soon as the Redanian guard are out of earshot. “That slimy fucking pox-cursed shitface. All those _years_ of work, ruined for his vendetta.”

“Not now,” Geralt whispers. He squeezes Jaskier’s hand briefly. “Let’s get back to the Rosebud, and then get out of here. If any of the survivors tell him we were at the Academy last night, we’ll be the next to go.”

Jaskier nods fervently, and they make their way back past the crowds and through the winding streets of Oxenfurt. The Rosebud is quiet, even for the early hours of morning – the inner parts of Oxenfurt are all but deserted.

“Is it true?” a girl asks quickly, the moment Geralt walks in. He recognises her as ‘Princess’ from the night before. She has been crying. “Is it true that the Academy is all burned down? I wanted to go see, but they all said someone had to stay here ‘case we got a customer, even though we never get no customer this early.”

“It’s true,” Geralt says sombrely. “Is the madam around?”

“Oh, fuck,” Princess says succinctly. “No, she’s asleep. It’s just me. Is there something you need?”

“Just want to pay for the dress and wig you loaned us,” Geralt says. “Unfortunately, it uh – well, it didn’t survive the night.”

The girl’s expression instantly changes to one of glee. “Oh, I thought something like that might happen,” she giggles. “Don’t worry, they thought it might get ruined – the wig and dress used to belong to one of our girls, but she got very sick and died, so nobody wants to touch them now. So we gave them to you, and we thought if we didn’t get them back it wouldn’t really matter.”

“Nobody thought to mention these circumstances to me before I donned the costume?” Jaskier mutters. 

“Convey our apologies all the same,” Geralt says, and gives the girl twenty farthings from his coin pouch. “We’ve had urgent business come up, so we must take our leave. Just came back to get his clothes and things.” Geralt points and Jaskier, who takes his cue to climb the atrium stairs to their room.

“You know, it’s funny,” Princess says, taking a seat in one of the plush cushion chairs and staring at a painting of the madam hanging on one of the walls. “I should be sad about all the history and things they’ve lost, right? But if I really think about it, the thing I’m saddest about it I always had a dream of going there. I know it’s silly of me–” she adds, before Geralt can reply. “I know a whore like me was never going to make it there. But sometimes, when it got hard, I had this vision of me sitting with some proper friends, on the grass under that big tree in the middle of it. Don’t even know what I’d want to study, honestly. Just wanted to be one of them. And here I am sad about that dream I had, rather than anything else.”

“I think that just makes you more perceptive than most people,” Geralt suggests. “Everyone seems to act and think and feel in selfish ways. There are very few who feel altruistically; far more common is the self-deception that one feels a way because of some noble goal, when in reality it is because of a dark, self-oriented desire.”

“That’s a bitter thought, Witcher,” the girl says. “And what of love?”

“Love?” Geralt asks, thinking of Yennefer’s lovely violet eyes, her cool gaze and her flowing black hair. “Love is the most selfish feeling of all, I should think.”

“I am not so sure that feeling _is_ true love,” the girl says, shaking her head. “Have you never seen a mother sacrificing her life for her child? That is what I mean. Love in its purest form, without the mottling of self-interest.”

“I think you would have done well at the Academy with your philosophising,” Geralt says, as Jaskier at last comes down the stairs in his usual garish outfit, crowned by the large lute strapped across his shoulders. “For what it’s worth.”

“For what it’s worth, Witcher,” Princess replies, smiling. “I appreciate it.”

They say their final farewells to the girl, and Geralt goes to fetch Roach from the stables. He finds them deserted, save for the horses; he only hesitates for a moment before picking a fine gelding from the stalls and leading it out with Roach. He leaves twenty Redanian crowns and a small emerald in a corner of the gelding’s stall, and departs to meet up with Jaskier at the Western Gate. There is only one guard at the entrance, and he is so captivated by the sight of the burning Academy that he does not notice them pass.

"Shani would be halfway to the warfront by now," Geralt observes, glancing up to where the morning sun is shuttered behind a cloud of thick smoke. He is glad that the medic would not have seen her beloved university destroyed, although hearing the news indirectly would be no less devastating.

Jaskier doesn't reply to Geralt, seemingly in his own daze.

They cross the Guildenstern Bridge, Jaskier mounting Roach as they reach the outer settlements. A melancholy silence settles on them both as they head south-east. Geralt occasionally looks up at the bard, but his friend sits rigidly on the saddle and looks off unseeingly into the distance. Even if Jaskier were to look back at him, Geralt is not sure what he would say.

It is in the late afternoon, as the shapes of Oxenfurt fade into the distance behind them, that Jaskier finally breaks his silence.

“You don’t think we were followed last night, do you? Was it… was it our fault they were discovered?”

Geralt thinks of his discussion on the king’s ship, how the king boasted of his network of spies, and finds he does not have an answer. Unbidden, the memory of Radovid’s voice comes back to him.

“ _No matter how independent you think you are, there will come a time when you must choose who you stand behind._ ”

Geralt glances briefly behind him, at the distant towers of the Academy and the pillar of smoke that spills black into the azure sky.

 _For all your pretty words Radovid,_ Geralt thinks, rage settling into his blood, _I will_ never _choose to stand behind you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oxenfurt Academy’s architecture and layout is a blend of the books, the games, and my own imagination. The games are condensed for playability, so the size of areas is usually not to scale of the books.


	6. Belleteyn - Part One

Geralt knows the loss of the university weighs heavy on Jaskier’s heart, but even so – he has never seen the bard so despondent.

It has been a month since the burning of Oxenfurt Academy, and his friend has not strummed a single chord on his lute. Instead, he carries the instrument on his back like a burden, like it is a heavy stone he has been cursed to carry for the rest of his days. Some days he almost talks as animatedly as he used to, but on days like this one, he sinks into a bubble of impassable brooding. The whole morning has passed without Jaskier saying a word, only to utter a distracted ‘hm?’ when the witcher takes initiative to start a conversation.

Geralt never thought he would miss his friend’s ceaseless chatter.

He has decided they will stay for a while in Dorian to collect coin from witcher contracts. Since Jaskier has temporarily given up singing, Geralt finds himself paying for food and bed for the both of them. Geralt doesn’t mind – worst comes to worst, he has his savings in the Cianfanelli account, which he can withdraw from in Ellander. He’s more concerned about the way Jaskier seems to disappear inside himself, in a way he’s seen in other people, but never in his energetic, spirited friend.

He mutters some excuse to Jaskier about needing to let Roach have a break as they turn off the main road towards the city. It is not a lie – the horse has travelled without much respite for more than a week. He tells Jaskier to get rooms and meet him later in the town square. With that accomplished, he sets Roach up in the nicest stables he can find, paying extra for decent feed.

The city of Dorian is a haphazard mess, sprawling out from the point where various roads collided. As such, it was primarily a trading city, and overflowed with produce on its way from one edge of the map to another. Stalls lined the streets, hawking goods from the western oceans and eastern valleys, from the northern mines and southern plains. The buildings themselves reflected the city best, built with a blend of architectures from many different parts of the Continent – none of which seemed to work particularly well together. Most houses had storeys stacked awkwardly on top of older levels, obvious late additions to make room for a booming population.

Unlike many other cities in Temeria, Dorian was not built for defence, and so has no citadel walls or fort upon a hill crest. Instead, it lies flat and disorganised upon the plain, and navigation is more difficult than usual – even for a witcher who has visited more than once before. Still, every city has rich and poor districts, and Geralt follows the scent of money until he reaches the town square.

The square is beautiful, a large, clean area paved with a mosaic patterns in the shape of a tree. It is an image of the same tree which dominates the centre of the square – an enormous, beautiful oak, with wide-reaching branches that extend out and shelter half of the plaza from the sunlight. Other trees and shrubs grow around the sides of the area, creating the impression of a public park, secluded from the chaos.

He spots Jaskier standing in front of the city noticeboard, lute absent from his back.

 _Must have found an inn then,_ Geralt thinks as he approaches. And a reputable one too; Jaskier was possessive of Filavandrel’s gift, and trusted only the finest establishments to keep it safe.

The bard is seemingly lost in thought, and doesn’t notice Geralt approach.

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, attempting to rouse the bard’s interest for the fifth time that day. “See anything interesting?”

Jaskier frowns at the noticeboard, and Geralt leans over him. He scans over the chaotic, haphazard collection of letters.

_Why are you worrying about the war of KINGS, when you should be worrying about the war of GWENT! On the first of June, the BRAVE Finneas of the Scoia’tael will face off against the MIGHTY Ericksin von Hasterberg, to decide the future CHAMPION of TEMERIA! 15 th May. Open Gwent Contest also being held during the week. Held in the House of the Queen of the Night, in the Trade Quarter in Vizima. 10 crown entry fee._

_Just a reminder not to go near Magpie Forest – we’ve lost three people in a week who went that way, and I don’t want to lose more. Alfred_

_BEWAER THE DEVIL THAT RIDES THE NITE WYNDS. HE SHALL COMETH TO TARE YE APART FOR STEELING ME WIFE, GERTIN._

_REWARD: Saw a terrifying beast stealing my sheep three times this month. Tried to raise an alarm the second time, but got swarmed by crows – barely escaped with my life. If anyone can help me defeat it, myself and the four other farmers its targeted will pay you handsomely. Ta. – Roderin Blacke_

_NOTICE FROM THE PALACE: WARNING! The Catriona Plague Mandates are still in effect. DO NOT approach wild animals. Domestic animals with signs of sickness should be killed immediately. Those suffering the disease should be avoided at all costs. If you feel any of these symptoms, please report to the city guard to be quarantined: Fever, chills, headaches, muscular pain, weakness of the heart, seizures, swollen glands in the groin or armpits. – Signed, Captain of the Vizima Guard, under orders from Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, Emperor of Nilfgaard, King of Cintra, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, Ruler of the North and South._

_Brother’s gone missing. Small reward for knowledge of him, or anyone else who’s been missing. Large reward for bringing me his body, dead or alive. – Gerrawan_

_There’s some plants I need desperately that grow in Magpie Forest, but I don’t dare go there myself after the killings that have happened. If anyone wants to help, I can pay a good coin for the gathering. – Merrin the Herbalist_

_Seen a manticore haunting the road between here and Vizima. Can’t offer much, but Captain of Vizima Guard said he could offer a royal payment for its head. Would feel safer travelling that way if I knew it were dead. – Trennavin_

“Any of these would do,” Jaskier says impassively.

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. “What do _you_ want to do? Would anything inspire a song?”

Jaskier looks at Geralt properly for the first time, a little more focus coming back into his eyes. “Sorry, Geralt. I just – keep thinking about things.”

“I know,” Geralt says. “We could, uh,” he continues awkwardly, “hm. Talk about it?”

He wrinkles up his nose in pain at his phrasing.

There’s a pronounced pause, and then Jaskier’s sombre expression completely breaks. He laughs long and hard at Geralt’s terrible attempt to communicate, and Geralt’s heart warms to see his friend’s face finally dancing with amusement.

“Never mind,” Geralt says awkwardly, as Jaskier continues cackling at his expense. “Just. Here if you need.”

“I appreciate it, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Perhaps – perhaps I will take you up on it. But for now – I think of all of these, my favourite is the fetching quest. Go to a forest, get some flowers, come back – seems simple to me. Low chance of death. And if we see any of these other things on the way there, you can slay them too.”

“Alright,” Geralt says, nodding. “Let’s go visit the herbalist, then.”

* * *

Merrin gives them a list seven items long of ingredients she wants gathered, but she promises a fair price for the retrieval of them. Some of the plants will be easy enough to find; sewant mushrooms and berbercane fruit grow in abundance – but mandrake root, for example, will prove harder to locate. Geralt estimates it will take them the rest of the day to collect everything they need.

They set off away from the village, the dusty road widening out as the ramshackle houses give way to empty fields. Not for the first time, Geralt notices the grasses in the leas are dry, the crop rows empty. Crows pick at the lines of dirt, cawing at each other with voices that echo in the quiet morning air. He notices as well the wildflowers that usually line such roads have not yet bloomed, despite it being the height of spring – their buds have withered on the stem, like children struck with sudden illness before they could reach their prime. These sights are not unique to Dorian, of course. The spring weather had been unseasonably dry, and they had passed many empty fields, dying plants, and starved animal corpses on their way west from Oxenfurt.

As always, however, the worst only came into sight as they reached the main roads. The high road which ran alongside the Ismena River was littered with ragged refugees from the war, miles of broken bodies and faces marked by unspoken horrors. Parents who had lost their children, children who had lost their parents. People begging for food, water and coin. Geralt did not like seeing how Jaskier’s eyes went gone cloudy and unseeing as they passed such wretched souls. It was more unnerving to him than the refugees themselves.

When Jaskier had seen such people in the past, he had tried to help or cheer them. Occasionally he would toss them coin, if they had coin to spare. In the last month, however, he had retreated entirely. Jaskier stopped bothering to give the children coin, or bread, or cheer, when they passed a hundred every day. Something inside Geralt was in turmoil over the change – the way that Jaskier no longer smiled at the less fortunate, no longer tried his best to improve their day, no matter how small and insignificant the trying may be. Instead, chilled by the events at Oxenfurt, he began ignoring them. He had become quieter and quieter, sinking into a deep, dark place Geralt did not know how to retrieve him from.

“Let’s stop before the crossing,” Jaskier says, his voice rough with disuse. “I’ll take a drink before we walk further.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No. This river runs downhill from Vizima, and the water is likely to be rancid with plague and human waste. If you need water, use the waterskin in the rucksack. I packed it for this reason.”

Jaskier makes a noise of dissatisfaction, but doesn’t complain any further. Geralt assumes he wants to preserve the few supplies they have, lightly packed into a rucksack upon Jaskier’s back. His friend was so lost in his own thoughts he had not yet spared Geralt a jibe about being Roach’s packhorse replacement.

They cross the narrow wooden bridge that hangs above the Ismena. Jaskier lifts his shirt to his mouth as they pass plague victims, gaunt-looking and rancid with pus and rotted flesh. The refugees look at them with open, naked vulnerability, and Geralt finds he needs to look away. He does not know why so many afflicted have taken to the roads. There is no help anywhere for these peasants – at this point, the only reason to walk is to find a more scenic grave.

At last, they break from the main road again as they head west towards the woodlands, and the road clears of people. Jaskier gives an audible sigh of relief as they turn onto the deserted dirt track that winds up towards the distant hills. Magpie Forest is visible now in the distance – a strange dark mark on the landscape, a murky blemish that looks out of place against the yellowing fields and ice-clear sky. As they approach, Geralt hears the faint whisper of singing birds, a joyful noise that seems discordant against the sight of the sinister, shadowed hills. They follow the path towards the woodland, the well-trodden dirt road growing more and more overgrown with weeds as they near the outer circle of trees.

They enter the forest, passing quickly from open field into a heavy thicket. Jaskier starts humming beside him, copying the birdsong that grows ever louder around them. His voice is more mellow than that of the birds, yet somehow sweeter.

Geralt turns to look at him. The patchy shade of the overhanging branches are dappling Jaskier’s face with light and dark, a moving kaleidoscope of shapes. The effect makes it hard for him to trace the shape of his profile. After months apart, Geralt finds he is struck with the desire to memorise his features, and the way they had changed with age. He wonders idly if anyone has painted Jaskier’s portrait, so that Geralt might have a reference when–

Geralt quickly shoves that train of thought aside.

“What?” Jaskier asks, breaking his melody to do so.

“Nothing,” Geralt says quickly, realising he has been staring at the side of Jaskier’s face for longer than was polite.

“Hm,” Jaskier says, but doesn’t comment further. He continues his low humming, now apparently trying to find a non-existent harmony.

The outer sections of the forest seem to be comprised of newer growth – the tree trunks are thin, the trees short and shrub-like, their leaves small and spindly. As they wander further in, however, the leaves grow larger in size, and the trunks grow thicker and wider apart. Eventually the trunks grow so large that even Geralt feels dwarfed by them. Seven men could stand around each tree trunk and still not be able to link their arms around the outside.

They travel up and down the winding path, passing small creeks that cut through the hills and trickle lightly towards the Ismena. The shade of the forest has made the air both cool and pleasantly humid, and the breeze is gentle, rushing through the leaves and moving the speckled shadows upon the ground.

The forest is peaceful, yet Geralt feels something is not quite right. For one thing, he has seen no animals – despite the sounds of birds that echo all around them.

Geralt’s medallion tingles on his chest, and he unsheathes his silver sword from his back. “Jaskier,” he murmurs, and Jaskier obediently falls in behind him.

They wait, barely breathing, as the wind gently rustles the trees around them. After a tense moment, Geralt’s medallion stops tremoring and he relaxes his stance.

“It’s gone,” Geralt says, confused. “Stay on your guard – _something_ is out there, although I know not what.”

His witcher medallion remains warm upon his chest, but it does not vibrate with the presence of malevolent evil. Geralt is wary nonetheless. He has noticed that the forest is strangely regimented, as though created through duplication magic. They wander onwards, down into a valley floor lined with mossy grass.

Jaskier clears his throat, and then starts nervously, “Uh. Geralt. Haven’t we been past this tree before?” He approaches the tree in question, one with a gnarled trunk and a knot in the centre. Now that Jaskier mentions it, it looks vaguely familiar. “I’m sure it’s exactly the same tree,” Jaskier adds, “although it was last at the top of a hilly track, not down here.”

Geralt swears under his breath. “Fuck. I think there is some magic moving the forest around us.”

“We could try marking the forest as we go?” Jaskier suggests. “Could we scratch arrows into the tree trunks?”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, and then waves the Axii gesture with his hand. A spark of flames char Jaskier’s tree, blackening the knot.

Suddenly, the wind picks up around them, and the trees start swaying. The wind sounds almost like a whisper, voices in the leaves hissing their disapproval.

“Ok, ok, let’s not do that again,” Jaskier mutters. “I don’t think they liked it very much.”

Geralt’s medallion is vibrating again, and this time it burns hot with the presence of magic. “Jaskier,” he warns again. “Stay close–”

“ARGH!” Jaskier yells. “Geralt–!”

Beneath them, vines have snarled their way around their legs without their noticing, trapping their feet beneath their stems. Geralt swears and starts hacking at them with his sword. As soon as he cuts the vines, however, several more sprout in their place, winding up his thigh, his chest–

“What happened to the ground?” Jaskier shrieks, and Geralt too realises that the soil beneath them has turned soft, and they are slowly being dragged down into it.

“Oh bloody hell,” Jaskier squeaks, struggling. “Geralt, _do something_ –”

His voice is choked off, the vines constricting around his chest. His eyes lock with Geralt’s as he hyperventilates, gasping for oxygen.

“JASKIER!” Geralt roars, and struggles vehemently against his bonds. It’s no use; he is already chin-deep in the sinking ground, and he splutters as his words are cut off by a mouthful of soil.

No sooner has Geralt seen Jaskier’s head disappear under the grass than he himself is taken, and darkness engulfs him. His breath stutters as he is choked and squeezed–

All at once, he feels his body released from its bindings, and the reassuring weight of solid rock underneath him. He wheezes desperately as he tries to inhale too fast, the air failing to pass through his crippled windpipe. He snaps his eyes open, and sees a peaceful forest around him – this one, it seems, made without magic.

He is in a clearing, on top of some sort of large, grey boulder. There are more plants here, colourful flowers, and vines, and fungi – and animals too. A squirrel ducks around a gnarled tree trunk and looks at him curiously, before disappearing back from where it came. But the strangest thing is that despite the abundant light, the canopy above him is completely covered over – leaves and vines and branches criss-cross each other in a comprehensive blanket of dark green.

“Jaskier,” Geralt pants, when he can form words again. He gathers the energy to lift himself on one arm, swivelling his head around until he locates his friend, lying unmoving behind him on the large rock.

“Jaskier!” Geralt rasps, dragging himself over to his friend. “Wake up! Jaskier!”

 _He’s breathing, at least_ , Geralt thinks, a rush of relief seeping through him at the sight of his friend’s chest rising and falling shallowly. Somehow, he looks a part of the scenery – as though his breaths were timed with the rustle of the leaves in the wind, his skin the same hues as the flowers and animals. A figure in a painting, immortalised forever in a place beyond touch or sound.

The more he looks, the more he realises Jaskier looks unnaturally peaceful, and Geralt is struck by a strange fear. It nags at him, consuming his earlier relief.

“Whoever did this,” Geralt says, his voice still croaking weakly in defiance of his anger, “Show yourself.”

He waits only a moment before the trees around him start rustling again, and a tall, imposing figure steps out into the clearing. A cluster of smaller shadows step into the light behind it.

Geralt’s hand goes to his sheath as soon as he recognises the thing at the front as a leshen, but he finds his sword missing. He scrabbles for it, and realises both silver and steel must have gotten lost while they were falling through the forest floor.

“Your weapons have been taken,” the leshen says in a voice that is somehow both the booming roar of a king, and the quiet whisper of the wind. It stands at twice the height of Geralt, a creature made of tree bark and the facsimile of human clothing, crowned with a deer skull and antlers for a head. Geralt wonders, with the inanity of the doomed, if the leshen ever gets its antlers caught in tree branches. Somehow, the grace and terrifying power of the entity seems to make that idea unlikely.

Behind the leshen, a group of ten or so spriggans rake their twig-like claws in the ground as though in some sort of twisted applause or war cry. The spriggans, at least, have humanoid faces – although their eyes are black as a demon’s, and their skin the cracked and blemished texture of bark.

“Why have you brought us here?” Geralt asks, pushing himself to his feet with no small effort. He stands between the monsters and Jaskier, hoping to hide his friend’s limp form with his own body.

“A sacrifice must be made, witcher,” the leshen says, almost sadly. “But we know that if we try to take you, you will kill many of us in the attempt. Already you have resisted our magics, and you stand unharmed where you should lie defeated.”

Geralt thinks of his throat, still stinging with pain, but says nothing to contradict them.

“For this reason,” the leshen continues, “We shall take your human servant as our sacrifice, feed him to the forest roots, and let you pass through our forest unharmed – a small payment for taking your servant.”

Geralt laughs, and then coughs when the noise gets stuck in his throat. “No,” he manages finally, wheezing. “No. No.”

“No?” The leshen asks, mystical, impermeable voice sounding almost curious. “You have no right of refusal. We will take you too, if we must, but we would prefer not to shed more sap than is necessary.”

“Why do you need – the sacrifice?” Geralt pants. “What purpose does it serve?”

The leshen stares at him with empty, hollow holes where eyes should be. Geralt shivers a little.

“We are the guardians of this sacred forest,” the leshen says, finally. “For many years, we lived in harmony with those above. But now, the earth is dying. The soils are crumbling, the waters are poisoned. The flowers wither and die without blooming. You have been in the world outside – you must have seen this much.”

Geralt nods slowly, reserving his voice for when he needs it.

“We could not let our forest die as the outside dies. It is our home, the home of all the trees and animals – we have a duty to protect them. And so we enact old magics and feed the forest with blood from above – souls which keep the trees healthy, the animals alive, and so in this way we may continue in prosperity as the outside burns.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Can’t just kill people. They have the same right to live.”

The leshen hisses, and the spriggans do likewise, raking their claws through the grass once again. “The arrogance of man,” the leshen snarls. “This forest once reached from the Mahakam Mountains to the sea, from beyond the Pontar to the southern hills. But humans cut and hacked at our ancestors, murdered us in numbers beyond telling. Elders who had stood watch over this land for time immemorial. And you ask us to spare a few human lives, when they have murdered millions of ours?”

Geralt hesitates. “I regret that all your people have suffered. But–” he gestures at Jaskier, still lying prone on the rock “–you cannot have him. Or me. I will kill you if you try to take either of us.”

The spriggans rake their claws faster and faster, and one leaps up onto the rock, sharp teeth stretched out in a horrifying yowl. Geralt curses and positions himself for an unarmed fight, when the leshen calls out in a voice which seems to reverberate inside Geralt’s head.

“ _Wait.”_

The spriggan freezes, its dark eyes a spiralling whirlpool of black loathing.

“There is one other option. You are a witcher, slayer of beasts, yes? I will let you pass, if you will assist us with the darkness in this forest – an evil we have failed to defeat.”

“What evil?” Geralt says warily. The leshen’s skull twists entirely around on its head, a gesture that makes Geralt wince despite knowing the beast is not human.

“Follow me,” the leshen says. “I will show you.”

Geralt hesitates, looking between Jaskier and the spriggan still frozen with an expression of menace.

“Your servant will not be harmed, if you succeed in aiding us,” the leshen continues, with a hint of impatience.

Geralt grits his teeth, and says “Fine. But I need my weapons back.”

The leshen turns to the spriggans, and one brings forth his swords, laying them out on the base of the rock as though giving an offering to a god. Geralt picks them up and sheathes them. He looks back at Jaskier one last time, and then follows the monster into the darkness beyond the trees.

* * *

The leshen leads him through an ancient forest that reminds Geralt of Brokilon in the sheer size of its trees and diversity of its plants and animals. The golden colour of the light is the same, too – bright, welcoming and peaceful, although Geralt knows as well as any that even Brokilon’s serene atmosphere still conceals formidable monsters.

“This forest,” Geralt says eventually. “We fell through the forest floor, and yet I can still see sunlight. I assume what lies above is an illusion?”

“Yes,” the leshen hisses. “In ages past, our Elders hid our remaining sanctuary under a newer forest above. Once, that forest was as splendid as this – trees born of love, grown with care and joy. Then humans came and tore down tree after tree. My ancestors feared the entrance to our sanctuary would be discovered. One day a powerful mage wandered into our forest, seeking the hidden realm spoken of in elven myths. The leshy showed her this place, in exchange for her casting an illusion to protect it.”

“That’s unusually generous, for your kind,” Geralt says bluntly.

The leshen makes something akin to a jeering sound. Geralt shivers; the noise is discordant and harsh upon his ear.

“The barbarities of your races do not compare to our acts of self-preservation. We kill those who stray onto our lands; is it not the same for your people?”

“Not my people,” Geralt says shortly, “but I see what you mean.”

“Here,” the leshen says suddenly. “It is close.” He gestures with a long, spindly branch-finger towards a dead rabbit. Geralt bends over the rabbit, looking closer, and sees the corpse is mummified, drained of flesh and wrapped with tight skin.

“Do you know what did this?” Geralt asks the leshen.

“No,” it replies, the short word made powerful by its strange voice. “We see the monster, we sense it, but it moves too fast for us to know it. Most commonly, it is the size of a human, but moves as a spider. Yet each time we see it, the beast shifts and changes. The only thing we know is that it is made by man, not by nature. We cannot communicate with it. It does not belong here.”

“Why can you not overwhelm it, with your numbers?” Geralt asks.

The leshen rustles the leaves upon its skin, as though it is a discomforted animal. “It resides in an ancient, cursed part of the forest, one even we dare not tread within. Venturing into those lifeless woods is anathema to us. Even were we to find it when it hunts outside the dead land – we cannot touch it. The beast has poisoned barbs that rot our flesh.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “It does not sound like anything I have encountered, although I imagine you are ill equipped to describe creatures so unfamiliar to you.” He pauses, and looks the leshen in the pit of its eyes. “I will kill it, if it can.”

“Do so, and we will free your servant from our enchantment,” the leshen promises. “I will remain here, Witcher. I will await your return, or presume your death. If I do not see you by sunrise, I will assume you are dead or fled, and will use your servant as the sacrifice we need.”

“Not happening,” Geralt mutters, and peers down again, examining the trail of destruction leading away from the rabbit’s body. The scratches in the surrounding trunks and roots match the approximate size of an arachnomorph, but usually such a creature used webs of silk to catch its prey.

He follows the trail deep into the forest, the strange golden light fading as he goes. It is easy enough to notice his crossing into the area the leshen had referred to as ‘cursed’. The very colour of the leaves seems to fade to a murky grey, and the breeze seems colder, more hostile. The trail of broken branches and claw marks grows wider and converges with other, similar tracks.

Geralt examines the tracks, and finds them varied in shape and size. Some look like talons; others have the weight of hooves, paws, or even humanoid feet.

 _Hmm,_ he thinks. _A shifting creature, perhaps a doppler of beasts._

The paths all lead to a cave opening, a series of animal carcasses strewn about the entrance. Dried blood coats the surrounding rockface. The opening itself is no more than a jagged fissure in the cliff, barely wide enough for Geralt to pass through. It is no wonder that the surrounding rocks are covered in claw marks from the beast trying to work its way in and out.

“Alright,” Geralt murmurs. He takes Cat potion from his belt, and takes a short swig. All that’s left then is to draw out his silver sword and proceed slowly into the darkness. The medallion on his chest begins to buzz like an agitated bee.

The cave is filled with broken stalactites and stalagmites, and Geralt finds it difficult to find purchase on the uneven floor. What remains of level ground is littered with the skeletons of desiccated rodents, and Geralt winces as he steps through the skulls of one or two larger animals. The medallion’s vibrations grow stronger and stronger as he edges deeper into the cave. Just as he rounds a corner and loses the last of the natural light behind him, Geralt stops. He hears faint hissing noise, coming from above.

He only has a second to look up at the mass of black, before it launches itself at him. It collides with his chest, sending him flying to the ground. He manages to get his sword pointing up as it does so, however, and the creature gives out a shriek as it is stabbed straight through. He slides his sword up and down the abdomen of the beast, and the two halves of its body fall to the ground on either side of him. Breathing heavily, he stands again, wiping at the muck that had excreted out of the body of the arachnomorph.

“Fuck,” Geralt swears, separating his fingers only to have a string of monster gunk expand out between them. This looks like the type of substance that takes him hours to wash out of his clothes.

 _Still,_ Geralt thinks, _at least that was an easy kill –_

No sooner has the relieved thought crossed his mind than he hears more hissing in the darkness, the sound of others ready to avenge their fallen sibling.

“Great,” Geralt mutters. He swings his sword as they attack, making sure to let none get close enough to scratch or bite him. The monsters’ body parts go flying as Geralt slices through them one by one. He notices that the beasts are different in size, in shape and gait, although all share the same ferocity and dark, menacing aura. Some are built like insects, while others look more like draconids or dogs. More of the sticky substance seeps on the ground until the cave floor is a lake of it, broken up only by the aborted stalagmites.

“Any more?” Geralt asks the dark depths of the cave, when all the creatures lie slain. When no more are forthcoming, he sighs and continues forward, his boots dragging a trail of slime.

The cave winds deeper into the earth, but Geralt sees no webs or egg sacs. Usually such a monster den has an excess of the foul things around a nest, and he considers his job done only when he has razed the area so that no more monsters can be born. He ventures deeper still into the cave, and comes at last to a wide opening where a lake of rainwater has coalesced in the middle of the floor. It looks to be a dead end, and yet there are still no eggs or indication of how the monsters spawned.

_Damn it._

Geralt sighs, and strips off the outer layers of his armour. He wades into the lake, only to find the rock bottom drop out from under him abruptly. There is a deep cavity there, and Geralt has a feeling he will find the source of all this trouble at the bottom of it.

He takes a quick, huge breath, and dives in.

The lake is freezing, but the water is still and pure. Geralt would be able to see to the bottom if it were not so dark, and the lake so deep. He pushes his body deeper to the bottom with large strokes of his arms, and hopes that his breath will last long enough. Luckily, his Cat potion is still working, and he sees the rocky floor rise up from the darkness. Once close enough to see what is on it, however, he finds himself at a loss.

A dark, painted mage circle is marked in the centre of the floor, intricate rounded patterns and symbols that Geralt vaguely recognises. He taps it experimentally, but nothing happens.

 _Mages must be transporting them here,_ Geralt thinks. _But why?_

He knows the only way to stop a portal is to break the pattern it is made from. Geralt resurfaces, and swipes his steel sword from where he left it on a rock shelf. His solution will blunt his blade terribly, but he supposes he can always get it sharpened back in Dorian or buy a new one.

He dives back into the lake, and scratches at the outside of the circle until his sword has driven into the rock floor deep enough to break the marking. His head is beginning to swim from holding his breath, and he desperately makes his way back to the surface, legs desperately kicking and his arms circling around his head and shoulders to propel him upwards.

Finally, he surfaces, gasping for air.

 _I really need to stock up on more potions when next I have a chance,_ he thinks moodily. _Simple contract to the forest for some mushrooms, and here I am in the middle of a lake, at the bottom of a cave of monsters. Typical._

The witcher redresses, picks up his things, and skulks back through the caverns. He feels entirely unpleasant, soaked with both cold water and slime. The number of hours that lie between him and the next bath seem insurmountable.

He passes the monster carcasses, now simply an assortment of body parts lying on the ground. All are still oozing the same dark substance.

He pauses, examining the body of one of the creatures. It is bizarrely proportioned, an unnatural fusion of spider and deer. The head is far too small for the body, the torso too narrow, and the legs strangely muscular. He wonders if they are failed experiments of some kind, each iteration a child of a slightly different spell. Perhaps, far away, there are mages building an army of these creatures, and sending them here when they disobey or are in some way defective. A remote place to dispose of unwanted weapons.

He thinks of the noticeboard in Dorian, and the note about sheep stealing monsters.

_Perhaps not so remote after all._

Geralt picks up the small monster head as a trophy, and wraps it in a black cloth that had been folded in his belt pocket. He winces slightly as the makeshift sack starts to drip slime onto his boot. He leaves the other corpses where they lie, and makes his way to the cave entrance.

Outside, the wind is still chill and unwelcoming. Defeating the monsters had not cured the forest of whatever dark magic was corrupting it. Geralt tilts his head up, peering up the cliffside to the top of the hill.

In his experience, sorcerers often planted their magical focuses upon ley lines. Putting the portal at the bottom of the cavern meant it was likely to be a place upon the map where many such lines converged. It was also likely why the monsters had kept returning to the spot, to feed upon the magic held there, like deer to a fresh spring.

 _Hmmm,_ Geralt thinks. _I’d hazard a guess there’s something directly above the portal, too._

He walks around the edge of the cliff, until the incline is shallow enough for him to attempt on foot. He ties the monster head to his belt, wincing slightly as it drips slime across his pant legs. He brushes his gloves roughly on a nearby shrub to rid them of some of the excretions, and then begins his ascent up the slope.

The climb is arduous. The blackened shrub leaves are stiff and spiky, and the ground is hazardously brittle. A few shards of rock give way beneath his boots, but luckily there are plenty of bowed branches to use as handholds when he slips. It becomes half hike, half-climb as the hillside rises ever higher above the fog. As he rises, branches begin jutting out the side of the cliff, as though they are appendages of a larger tree held within it. The stony incline has turned almost vertical, and Geralt abandons any attempt to continue walking it. Instead, he begins scaling using the branches as foot and handholds, making his way slowly upwards with step after careful step.

Finally, Geralt begins to breach the thick, greying canopy above. He fights through the prickling leaves and thorns which threaten to stifle him. He half-thinks to unsheathe his steel sword to clear a path, but then remembers what happened last time they had attacked a tree in this forest and refrains. His face begins to sting from all the cuts upon it, and he considers turning back – after all, the leshen had only asked he kill the beast. Still, he presses on. The harder the forest canopy tries to stop him, the more curious he is as to what lies above it.

Finally he breaks through, his face emerging from the leaves and thistles only to be cruelly met by a high wind. It whips at his already stinging face, and he squints his eyes against it. The remnants of the Cat potion are struggling to cope with the brightness of the day, and it takes a moment for his vision to adjust.

When he can see again, he momentarily forgets how to breathe.

He is at the top of the forest, staring out across an enormous patchwork quilt of green and grey that lie across shallow hills. In the distance, he can see the winding blue coil of the Ismena, and the small brown city of Dorian. He notices a clear marking of the ‘cursed’ section of the forest. The treetops closest to him are dark brown and even black, the leaves withering upon their stems. Further away, the trees resume lighter greens that shine with lustrous beauty.

The sun is resplendent, casting the scene in bright colours that dance and sparkle in the light. It looks better than any painting, and Geralt is only sorry Jaskier is not here to compose some song about it.

He turns behind him, and realises that he has been climbing some sort of Elder tree, its branches sticking out of the hill-like stump. He examines one of the grey branches, breaking off a small clipping. The twig seeps with blackened sap, not dissimilar to the slime the monsters had excreted. Even the leaves are patterned with black veins, the colour leeched from their surface to leave them translucent white.

 _Corruption,_ Geralt thinks. Something is sapping the energy of this tree, and the trees around it – and Geralt is sure he will find whatever it is at the top of this mountainous climb.

He makes his way further upwards, bracing himself occasionally when the wind picks up and threatens to knock him off his perch. He finds a blackened branch so fragile that it crumbles under his weight, and he hastily adjusts his path towards the thickest branches he can find. His muscles are aching from the ascent, but he ignores their protests and continues climbing.

His medallion suddenly begins shuddering violently, although Geralt barely notices it over the roaring wind. He does however, notice it near burning into his skin when the gust sends it flying up towards his chin. _Not too much further,_ Geralt thinks, and sure enough he can feel the magnetic thrum of power emanating above him. It feels like a drum under his flesh, vibrating through his very bones.

As he at last reaches the top, he sees a tangled knot of branches, and positions himself so he is level with it. It is not dissimilar to the shape of a cockatrice nest, although the ink black twigs are more intricately wound and the shape is a complete orb rather than a hemisphere. In the middle, something glistens.

Geralt pries apart the nest with one hand, and to his surprise and relief the branches snap off with barely any resistance. Their insides are hollowed, as though they were drained of life until no more life could be drained. He sweeps aside the layers of combed twigs until at last he sees the thing at the heart of it all.

The gem is no bigger than a dragon’s egg. At first Geralt thinks it is an impossibly large black opal, but when he looks closer, he can see the spots of colour are ever-changing leaves, dancing in greens and yellows. He watches it, something about the vision strangely familiar.

He sees a flash of straight, regimented brown, and he understands.

 _The illusion,_ Geralt thinks. _This is what is used to channel the power to sustain it._

He closes his fist around the gem, and immediately regrets doing so. It burns, hot and acidic against his mind, and only years of witcher endurance training keeps him from letting go immediately.

A voice curls around his skull, sultry and malevolent at once.

_“What do you seek, Witcher?”_

Geralt yells out in pain, and redoubles his effort to free the gem from its frame.

_He sees Yennefer, curled in white furs next to a fire. “Come here,” she says. “It’s cold out there, and the fire is so warm. We could stay here, and you could forget your troubles… forget all of this…”_

“No,” Geralt bites out, and with a great wrench he pulls the gem from the nest.

The voice in his head screams, before being cut off by a great, deafening bang. Geralt could not say if the noise was psychic or physical – but suddenly, the branches he has been using for support are crumbling under his fingers, and give way under his boots.

 _Fuck,_ Geralt thinks, and he falls.

* * *

When he wakes, the leshen is standing over him. It is serenely still, looking at him with the same expression it had when last he saw it. He flexes his hands, and notices he is still holding the illusion gem. He opens his fist slightly to look sideways at it, and sees the brilliant shifted colours of the gem have faded to dull grey.

“Got rid of your monster problem,” Geralt says eventually, although his voice is barely louder than a whisper. He feels winded, but otherwise far more alive than he should. “What happened?” he asks. “Did you save me?”

The leshen shakes its great skull head sombrely, its antlers swaying back and forth. “Not I, Witcher. The trees caught you in their branches, and carried you safely back. They told me you did them a great service, ridding the forest of an evil which has cursed it since long before my time.”

Geralt sits up, ignoring the ache in his stomach as he does so. “The spell you mentioned – the illusion that traps men. I found the source of it.”

“Yes,” the leshen says. “This is the stone you hold in your hand. We did not know the illusion consumed the life force of the forest in order to work. We had assumed it was the Greater Curse, the one which has sickened this Continent from the coast to the mountains.”

 _A greater curse,_ Geralt thinks. “Do you know anything about this ‘Curse’? Where it comes from, what causes it?”

The leshen shakes its great skull again, the movement almost comically large. “No. The ways of dark magic are foreign to us. We only serve the land, and the trees. We hear distant brothers calling out to us in pain, their roots reaching to the others for comfort. We protect our own, sheltering them from the disease. Our power can help no more.”

The leshen looks up at the canopy wistfully, before looking down at Geralt’s waist. “Did you find the creature, Witcher?”

Geralt remembers the small sack on his belt that had somehow stayed attached to him despite the climb and subsequent fall.

_Thank god for witcher knots._

He opens the sack and empties out the shrunken spider’s head in front of the leshen, its black eyes glossy and unseeing amongst the brown fur and jagged pincers.

“Wasn’t one beast. I think the monsters are made of magic, sent here by mages – that’s why they kept spawning, in ever-shifting forms. Perhaps the same mage who was allowed into this forest laid the portal. In any case, I’ve broken its spell, so you should not be troubled by these things again.”

The leshen bows its skull-head. “We owe you a great debt of thanks, for completing such a formidable task. You have saved our home from the evils of mages, twice over.”

“Not evil,” Geralt says, standing to his feet. “Merely negligent. I do not think they knew the impact of their actions.”

“Evil, all the same,” the leshen counters, and the hollows in the skull’s eye-sockets seem to somehow glow. The moment passes, and it nods towards Geralt amicably. 

“We will of course release your servant to you. Is there anything else you require?”

The witcher grunts, collecting the heads back into the slimy sack. “Want you to stop killing people. Now that the curse is lifted, surely you do not need their sacrifice.”

The leshen seems to ponder this a moment. The beast stands still, and Geralt can almost imagine it turning back into a tree.

“No. The curse upon this land stretches far wider than this forest. You have helped the threat from within, but not the threat from outside.”

Geralt huffs, frustrated. “Is there no other way to preserve the trees?”

The leshen thinks again. “We do not require human blood,” the leshen says slowly. “The blood of beasts would also suffice. But we will not kill the animals of this forest to sustain it. That would lead to a great unbalancing. It is not a sustainable solution. Hundreds of rabbits would have to die to balance the spiritual force of one human.”

“What about farm animals?” Geralt asks. “How many horses for a human? How many pigs? Could the towns not give an offering to appease you, so that you allow safe passage to the humans who pass this way?”

The leshen seems to consider this, in its strange, still way. Geralt imagines it as a peculiar village statue, with antlers that children would doubtless string with coloured thread.

“Twenty horses for each new moon,” the leshen replies eventually. “Such an amount would be enough to preserve the forest, now that you have relieved it of this cursed gem.”

“I will ask the people to arrange such a tribute,” Geralt says. “Until the land recovers, and the forest can grow freely again.”

_And let’s hope the poor harvest ends soon, so the villagers have horses left to trade with._

“If we receive such a sacrifice, then we will agree to it.” The leshen’s skull looks up at Geralt, and he feels a chill go through him unrelated to his soaked, cold clothing. “Well met, witcher. You do your race proud.”

“One more thing,” Geralt asks suddenly. “I was wondering if it were possible for your own servants to retrieve these plants for me, as payment for my services…”

* * *

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, eyes fluttering open. “What happened?”

Geralt looks sideways at his friend, and smiles slightly. He has been sitting idly on the rock next to Jaskier, half-awake and half-meditating, as the forest breeze rustles leaves gently around the clearing. Now that they are not under threat of death by overenthusiastic tree beasts, Geralt finds the clearing exceptionally peaceful. He can see why the leshen would want to protect the ancient forest from the ravages of the outside world.

“This and that,” Geralt says mildly. “Killed some monsters, saved you from being a sacrifice to the trees, stopped a mage from using the forest as his personal waste container.”

“I’m going to need more information than that,” Jaskier says, exasperated. “Why are you always so damn _reticent–_ ”

“Shh,” Geralt says, laying a gloved hand over Jaskier’s mouth. “I was enjoying the peace.”

Jaskier splutters, yanking Geralt’s hand off. “What is this _putrid_ stuff on your glove? Ugh, it smells like the sewers _–_ ”

Geralt sighs. Well, the silence had been pleasant while it lasted. Still, Jaskier’s rambling doesn’t dispel the sense of warm calm that has settled over his heart. If anything, it amplifies it.

“How’s the food?” Geralt asks, tilting his head down towards the rucksack lying at Jaskier’s feet.

Jaskier makes a face. “Squashed as a Hierarch’s balls. You still want some?”

Geralt grunts in affirmation, and Jaskier sighs. “Fine, fine. But don’t complain if you find the bread density unpleasant.” He passes the rucksack to Geralt, who unwinds the clasp.

Jaskier takes a closer look at Geralt, and whistles lowly. “Bloody hell, what happened to your face?”

“Had a run in with some trees,” Geralt says drily, as he tears apart the compacted bread. “The prickly sort.”

Jaskier winces. “Looks painful. Want a salve?”

Geralt shrugs, already chewing on his meal. “’S fine,” he says, muffled in between mouthfuls.

His friend rolls his eyes, and grabs the rucksack out from Geralt’s hands. “Give me that. Always so stubborn. Now let’s see…”

He rummages around in the bag, and procures three different bottles with identical looking white liquids within them.

“Gods, I wish you used labels. What if you’re passed out next time, and I confuse White Honey for Raffard’s Decoction? No, don’t tell me – thirty odd years and I think I have it down.”

The witcher rolls his eyes. “Eating is the best thing for me. There isn’t a healing potion.”

Jaskier glares at him. “And yet, you _always_ seem to have supplies to treat me with when I am injured!”

Geralt can’t argue with that; ever since the damn djinn, he has made sure to stock salves whenever Jaskier accompanies him. Of course, human and witcher healing were entirely different sciences – but experience has taught Geralt that it will be easier to acquiesce to his friend’s demands rather than point this out.

“Fine. The one in your left hand is used to soothe pain, although fundamentally it does nothing to assist the mending process.”

Jaskier beams. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, moodily chewing on his bread loaf.

Jaskier dabs some of the ointment on his hand, and then leans over to Geralt’s side. The witcher freezes a little as he realises what Jaskier is about to do, unused to the intimacy after so long apart.

The cream is cold to the touch, but Geralt almost immediately feels better. Jaskier’s hands rub circles on his cheek as he chews, delicate and soft as butter with every touch. The witcher swallows, and decides against taking another bite while the bard is working.

Jaskier moves around him, pressing feathered touches lightly around his face wherever he sees a cut. _He would make a fine butterfly,_ Geralt thinks irrationally. _One with ostentatious wings._ He holds his breath, so as not to disturb Jaskier’s painting.

Jaskier frowns, and leans back to examine his work. “There, that’s as good as I can make it. Does it feel any better?”

Geralt grunts in his throat, and Jaskier grins again. “As I said. Thank Melitele’s tits that I am here, so you don’t solider on in stoic pain for no reason.”

It’s a waste of the salve, but Geralt can’t bring himself to say so. Instead, he tears off some of the loaf for Jaskier, passing it to him before biting down on what remains of his share.

The bard hums as he eats, and Geralt realises that once again Jaskier is once again trying to harmonise with the birds in the trees. This time however, he seems to be doing so successfully – although how he manages such an impossible feat, Geralt does not know.

They stay upon the rock, enjoying the warm, soporific breeze. In an hour or so, the leshen will return with their requested items and lead them back to the upper forest. Until then, however, Geralt is content to lie here. He closes his eyes, and listens to the bird song intertwine with Jaskier’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying to make this fic feel like a video game as well as a written short story or a TV episode – hence the noticeboards and quests! One of the more obvious game tropes from this chapter is the idea of a '[Lost Wood](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheLostWoods)'.
> 
> The creatures in this chapter are based on the '[idr](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Idr)' from the show and books.
> 
> I decided to merge two spellings and make the book's ‘leshy’ the plural of Witcher 3’s ‘leshen’.


	7. Belleteyn - Part Two

They make their way back to Dorian just as the sky mellows into evening and the sun starts its descent. The colours are beautiful; the bright azure sky has turned to a heady violet, with dark grey clouds scattered on the distant red horizon. As they enter the city gate, they see lanterns being strung up between lampposts, children running about and laughing with glee.

“Oh!” Jaskier says, with the delighted excitement of a man faced with a surprising excess of women in his bed. “I forgot! Belleteyn!”

Geralt frowns. “Already?” He feels like weeks have passed him by without his notice – although, in fairness, his sense of time has been thrown off by the unseasonal weather and parched countryside.

Jaskier positively beams, looking happier than he has in a month. “Go get your payment for the herbs, Geralt – we’ll need that coin for the amount of drink and food I want to enjoy tonight!”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but his mouth is still upturned with quiet fondness. It is good to see Jaskier relishing life once again; he had feared for many weeks the bard might not return to the person he used to be.

“I want to bathe first,” Geralt says. “Change into some spare clothes, and try and soak these overnight. Don’t know if it will be enough, but it’s a start.”

His clothes dried out sometime between the lake and the fall from the treetops, but the monster secretions have hardened and made the leather and cloth rigid and unforgiving. He has felt for hours now as though he is wearing a suit of plated metal, rather than his usual flexible chainmail.

“Yes, you do need a bath,” Jaskier replies, wrinkling his nose. “Thankfully, I have you covered there. The inn I got a room at is famous for their private bathing experience. You go there, and I’ll go to the herbalist. She saw me with you this morning, she shouldn’t have any trouble paying me in your place.”

Geralt nods and passes the packages of flowers, leaves, roots, fruits and fungi across. The spriggans had gifted the collection of ingredients in large, woven grass envelopes, and Geralt admires the handiwork. Delicate and well-crafted, if completely impractical for carrying or storing in a rucksack.

“Take this with you too,” Geralt says, passing him the cloth holding the monster’s head within it. “See if you can find the farmer whose sheep were stolen, and ask him if the creature that took them was a dark, black thing like this. Get some coin from him, if you can.”

Jaskier makes a face, but dutifully takes the sack from him. At the very least, it has stopped dripping everywhere, although it still gives off a powerful stench.

“Alright,” Jaskier says, sighing. “I’ll see you in our room.”

He tucks the herb envelopes under his arm and rummages for something in his pocket. Jaskier tosses it at Geralt quickly, and the witcher catches it out of the air with ease. He looks down, opening his palm to find a brass key glinting at him in the lamplight.

“Go to the inn in the main square, The Golden Oak,” Jaskier instructs him, gesturing vaguely towards the middle of the town while holding the monster head as far away from his body as possible. “Entrance is underneath the branches of its namesake tree. I won’t be long. Don’t start the drinking without me!”

The bard heads off in the direction of the eastern outskirts of Dorian. Geralt walks the other way, making his way towards the central plaza. He feels strangely buoyed by the note of excited anticipation in the air. It has been a long, hard season – perhaps he, and everyone else in the city, were desperate for an excuse to relax, celebrate and drink. An excuse not to worry about the war, plague and famine closing in around Temeria.

The Golden Oak is a fine establishment, and Geralt is grateful that Jaskier had indulged in a room here. Their lodgings are spacious, richly decorated in the style of Toussaint, and well-equipped with a fireplace, ornate bath, and a painted privacy screen that could separate their beds if the need arose.

Not that Geralt particularly wants to fuck anyone while Jaskier is within hearing distance. As close as their friendship had grown over the years, there were some boundaries Geralt had no desire to cross. He knew other men had no such compunctions, soldiers often sharing whores between them in the same way they sharpened their swords upon a communal grindstone. War left little room for particularity when it came to one’s choice of sexual partners. Even _he_ had shared women with other men after a particular mead-laden mage’s feast, many years ago, and he had held no regrets come the following morning. But when it came to Jaskier – well. He doesn’t know what disturbs him more; the idea of Jaskier fucking someone in front of him, or Geralt fucking someone and Jaskier watching.

Shaking the strange thought from his head, Geralt makes his way to the dumbwaiter installed in the wall next to the fireplace. He rings the bell hanging from it, and presently the rope is jerked to indicate a bucket of hot water had been loaded on the bottom. Geralt knows he will miss this system the next time he is lugging pails up a set of rickety stairs two at a time, or ordering surly serving maids to do it in his stead.

After a full ten buckets have been lifted up and down the small shaft, Geralt has filled the bath enough to ring the bell again and end the procession. He strips off the hardened armour and clothing from his body, relishing the feeling of being able to bare his chafing skin to the open air. Shoving the soiled clothing in a pile, he sinks into the warm bath, letting the steam wash over him. He's always had a certain fondness for baths, a fondness that many of his close friends have teased him for over the years.

He has sunk into a state of meditative bliss when he hears a knock at the door.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks.

“Enter,” Geralt says, his voice unintentionally pliant and mellow with the soporific effect of the bath. He coughs awkwardly, and says with more of his usual coarseness, “I’m here.”

Jaskier opens the door, laughing as he sees Geralt in the tub.

“You are never more cat-like than when you are bathing,” Jaskier observes, “although I suppose cats hate water, so that metaphor doesn’t quite work. I just mean, you give off the same sort of energy as a cat flicking its tail lazily in the sun.”

Geralt grumbles, closing his eyes. He can’t be bothered mustering up the energy for a retort.

“Your hair is still filthy, you know,” Jaskier says. Geralt notices the slightest notes of strain beneath his teasing, although he has no idea what would cause anxiety in his friend at this moment. After all, they have plenty of coin, a festival to look forward to, and soft beds to sleep in. Life may actually be _good,_ for once.

“Do you want me to wash it for you?” Jaskier asks when Geralt doesn’t reply, his tone still deceptively light. Geralt considers the strange restraint in his voice.

He had forgotten how a month ago he had been certain Jaskier feared him – everything that had happened between then and now had pushed it from his mind. But now the memory comes back, of Jaskier tensing when Geralt touched him, his body emanating fear.

He opens his eyes to regard his friend, mind spinning to analyse the situation. Would Jaskier offer such a thing out of fear? Paying a witcher respect, so he is not killed in a crazed rage of bloodlust? Or simply trying to hide from Geralt the fact that he had grown older, wiser and more wary of his friend?

“I’ll take that as a yes?” Jaskier asks, nervousness now palpable. Geralt doesn’t know why. It isn’t as though this isn’t something Jaskier has done many times before.

Geralt nods slightly, and shifts his head to accommodate Jaskier behind him. Jaskier takes one of the silver containers standing on the tub’s railing, and a moment later Geralt feels cold fingers lathering wash cream into his scalp.

“Hmmm,” Geralt hums. Jaskier’s fingers pause momentarily in their ministrations, but then continue with renewed vigour. Usually, Jaskier takes the opportunity to prattle on about their adventures, or his latest paramour, or – well – _anything._ But tonight he is quiet, contemplative. Geralt wonders if the effects of the leshen’s spell are still lingering, or if it is merely the return of the melancholy that has followed him this past month.

“Jaskier,” he says, in an attempt to spur conversation, at the same time Jaskier says, “Geralt.”

Jaskier laughs a little awkwardly, and says “Speak, I – had nothing important to say.”

“I,” Geralt says, wincing. “Also. Had nothing important to say.”

Something in the air between them is uncomfortable, reserved, in a way it had never been before Oxenfurt. Jaskier continues to massage his scalp, far beyond what would need to be done for a simple cleaning. Geralt does not know if Jaskier has forgotten himself in his thoughts.

He tries to start again. “I find… I do not mind. If you speak of nothing important.”

Jaskier’s hands freeze again, and he doesn’t reply.

Geralt forges on. “I like you talking. Even if I pretend otherwise. I have missed it, these last few weeks.”

 _I miss you,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“I want you to be yourself again,” he says instead.

Jaskier is silent, and Geralt finds he can no longer bear to have this conversation without looking at his friend. He turns in the bath, water splashing as he leans up on his knees to see Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier, however, has hidden his face behind his sudsy palms. “Don’t look,” Jaskier says weakly, voice breaking, and Geralt thinks, incredibly, that he must be crying. “Don’t say a word. I’ve just had a long day.”

Geralt steps from the bath, soapy water spilling over the sides and dripping from his body onto the polished floors. Jaskier takes a peek from behind his hands and whimpers in surprise as Geralt takes the bard’s hands in his own, lowering them to his sides. He is close enough to embrace Jaskier, but he does not. Instead, he tilts his friend’s chin up so Jaskier is forced to lock eyes with him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and there are indeed tear-tracks running down his cheeks, glistening in the candlelight. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s eyes are mesmerising. Geralt thinks of his friend dressed in girl’s clothing, eyes rimmed with dark kohl, lips primed with glossy red pigment. Something in his mind is sharpening, coming into focus – if he could just keep looking at Jaskier, he might work out what it is–

But Jaskier’s heart is racing, and fear is once again rolling off him in waves. Geralt blinks, pausing as he wipes the tear stains from his friend’s cheek. “What?”

Jaskier’s breathing is uneven. “Huh?”

Geralt frowns. “You’re afraid of me. Again.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment with something like disbelief. Then he snorts, and says, “I couldn’t be afraid of you right now if I tried. Your hair is sticking up in the strangest way, spiked and as unfashionable as I’ve ever seen, and you are _completely naked._ ”

“Not completely naked,” Geralt says grumpily. He holds up the chain of his medallion and raises an eyebrow at his friend. “Still a witcher. Could still kill you.” It’s half a joke, and half bait for Jaskier to take up if he so chooses. Geralt won’t deny what he is – it’s a miracle Jaskier has ignored the poison born of associating with a witcher for so long.

Jaskier, however, smirks. “Get back in the tub and rinse that damn hair ointment out. We’re not having this conversation with you looking like a half-transformed werewolf.”

Geralt mutters something unfavourable and does as Jaskier asks. It’s only as he is squeezing the water from his hair a third time that he remembers the precise wording of his friend’s statement.

 _What kind of ‘conversation’,_ Geralt thinks uneasily. In his experience, ‘conversations’ which had a name and a timetable rarely meant that everything was travelling well between the involved parties, be they lovers or warlords. His heart sinks as he thinks of how Jaskier might ask to leave, might ask never to see Geralt again. Even if that scenario were avoided somehow, he has no doubt Jaskier is finally going to be honest about why he fears Geralt – and Geralt’s heart starts beating a little faster with anxiety over the possibilities.

Jaskier is already donning his egret-feathered cap and emptying half of the herbalist’s coin into Geralt’s pouch. The lute remains with his pack, untouched.

“I’m going to go get fabulously drunk,” Jaskier says, abrupt and carrying same veneer of false joviality he had before. “I’ll see you at the festivities, yes?”

Geralt’s heart pounds, thinking of the torture of having the possibility of Jaskier’s rejection hanging over his head. “Jaskier, wait.”

Jaskier stops immediately halfway on his way to the door, as though a puppeteer had suddenly cut his strings.

“I,” Geralt starts. “Uh. I don’t know if I want to hear what it is – but, if you want. The conversation. Later? Tonight?”

A muscle in Jaskier’s jaw twitches. Geralt stares. Perhaps he was being selfish, perhaps Jaskier had wished to avoid the issue, perhaps now he was forcing solution to a problem that could have gone away, been soothed over with time–

“If you want to have it,” Jaskier says, resigned, “then let me get at least a quart of mead into my stomach first. I do not think I can say it sober.” He shakes his head slightly, as though to himself, and then exits the room as quickly as he can. The bard slams the door after himself with the churlishness of a much younger man.

Geralt almost feels as though he is dealing with Yennefer, with the way Jaskier’s moods have been shifting around him lately and leaving him flat-footed. He sighs and sinks into the bathwater, wishing he could stay in his sanctuary of steam forever – but, of course, the bath has already cooled, and the water that had provided so much comfort is now growing tepid.

* * *

The Belleteyn festival is the perhaps the most beloved celebration in the calendar, a time for dancing and beautiful floral displays. On this particular occasion, however, the ailing land has left the flowers in short supply. To make up for it, the town has placed colourful paper lanterns on every surface and strung long wires lined with them from every wall. They cast the revellers' faces in soft, glowing light, creating a feeling of intimacy and comfort. Geralt watches the people in the square bustle around each other, and feels the merrymaking has taken on a sort of strange, fevered intensity. It is as though the citizens are determined to enjoy themselves, determined to have fun in spite of the horrors that surround their city.

The oak tree outside the inn is the centre of the activity in the square, with long ribbons hanging from its wide branches. People of all ages take up the end of the multicoloured strands, weaving them together in intricate dances, and then reversing the process to leave the strands flowing free once more. Across the square, hawkers sell aphrodisiacs by the pint, as well as chocolates and flowers to give lovers-to-be. Belleteyn is said to be the most fortuitous day for new lovers to take up with one another, or for old lovers to part ways. It is no coincidence that young men and women take to slathering themselves in bizarre perfumes and swallowing disgusting potions in the hope that they will find a new love for the new season.

It is also no coincidence that Geralt and Yennefer have met more than once on this day, beneath the laughter and music of May Eve. Not to mention, today is Yennefer’s birthday – Geralt feels a stab of guilt at the way they had last parted. Angry, resentful, and shooting bitter epithets at each other as though they were competing in the most miserable game of archery possible. He wonders where the sorceress is now – if she is happy, if she is loved, if she has someone to buy her a present to celebrate another year of her lengthy life.

He scans the crowd, half-hoping to find a red feathered cap, half-hoping to find a head of rich black hair. When he finds neither, he sighs and continues further into the town, entering taverns and side-streets to look for Jaskier. He searches for almost an hour, but sees no sign of his friend anywhere. He wonders, briefly, if he is avoiding Geralt – but no, Jaskier had promised that they would talk, and he has never broken a promise. Or – he has never broken a sincere promise to him. Of that, Geralt is certain.

It is in the sixth tavern, down the seedier end of town, that Geralt starts to feel annoyed. Jaskier had just taken off without a hint of where he was going – and although Dorian is a small city, it is still a city, with many places for a man to hide.

“Fine,” Geralt mutters to himself, and orders a large glass of wine. He downs it with ferocity, and demands another. He is seven glasses in, and feeling rather warm, before it occurs to him that it may have been a better idea to have eaten first.

He stares at one of the torches, watching it dance prettily upon the timber wall. His vision blurs slightly as he lets his eyes lose focus. A hand waves in front of him, and then snaps its fingers for attention.

 _Jaskier,_ Geralt thinks for a moment – but no, it is merely a strange, drunken man with a party of five other friends at his back.

“Oi. What’re you doin’ in our space?” slurs the ringleader. “Piss off, Witcher. There’s a special price here for unnaturals, and you ain’t paid it.”

Geralt growls at him. “I didn’t see a sign saying so.”

The ringleader laughs, and his minions echo the sound. “You hear that, lads? He ain’t seen no sign!”

One of the other men edges forwards, and leans down to sneer into Geralt’s face. The man has unpleasant breath that stinks of hornwart.

“You gotta pay us for our discomfort,” the man says, spraying spittle everywhere as he speaks. “Twenty-five gold each, see. I hear you witchers make more than that in an hour.”

“Rumours are often misleading,” Geralt says. He looks to the barman to intervene, but sees that the man is busy cleaning tankards with a cloth and looking very deliberately involved with his work.

“Pay up or get out,” snarls the ringleader. “Or do we have to make you?”

Geralt sighs. “Fine. Have it your way.”

He sits up, and punches the foul-smelling man right in the teeth. He feels a few of them break off from the gums, the man immediately howling in pain and crumpling to the floor. Geralt stands as the other men yell over each other, each pushing each other around in determination to be the first to avenge their friend.

“Please, ladies,” Geralt says drily. “There’s enough of me to go around.”

The ringleader roars and swings wildly at him. Geralt may be drunk, but he is still strong enough to catch the blow, and he grabs the man by the wrist before sending him flying across the room. He collides messily with another table, two tankards of beer spilling over the top of his head and clanking to the floor.

“Any more?” Geralt asks. The other men look hesitant, suddenly very unwilling to meet his eye. “No? I didn’t think so.”

He scoffs at them, and sits down in his seat at the counter, swigging the last of his wine from the cup. Unfortunately, he finds that the tavern has become too hot for him between the alcohol in his blood and the exertion of the fight. He pushes himself back up, swaying only slightly as he does.

Geralt sends a final glare at the barman for good measure, then swaggers towards the door.

“Dammit Jaskier,” he mutters, pulling his collar away from his skin. “Where are you?”

The air outside is cool, pleasant relief on his face, and he thinks with some amusement of the bath he had drawn earlier that evening. _Hot and cold,_ Geralt thinks nonsensically. _Cold and hot. Who was I looking for? Oh. Jaskier and Yen. Yen and Jaskier._

He giggles to himself, and walks along the laneways idly, searching for Jaskier. He misses him. He wants to find his friend quite desperately – it’s no fun drinking without him here to tease him for it. _It’s miserable. I hate it._

He closes his eyes, and drowns out the crowd around him. _I am hunting prey,_ he thinks, filtering out the strands of voices, the scents of food and sweat and vomit. _I am hunting my friend._

Two things hit him at once; the sound of a low, sweet voice, and the scent of lilac. Lilac and gooseberries.

Geralt blinks his eyes open, shocked. It _cannot_ be.

But of course, it can be, for he himself had been the one to make sure their paths would always intersect again and again, no matter how they might dislike it. He hesitates, torn. On one hand – he wants to find Yennefer, tell her again how he loves her, apologise for the way they left and seek to make amends. But on the other hand – it hadn’t been _his_ fault, the way they had left off – and he isn’t sure she would want to see him, anyway. And he _had_ made Jaskier an important promise in their rooms, to hear out this ‘conversation’.

Geralt decides. He will go to Jaskier, see what he has to say, and then if Jaskier wants to part ways, so be it – he will find Yen, plead his case, and she might be kind enough to ease the pain of his best friend leaving him. After all, it is Belleteyn – and Yennefer has always been a romantic, no matter how she might pretend otherwise.

Mind made up, he follows the soft notes of Jaskier’s voice through the streets, coming to a lively brothel whose patrons are spilling out onto the street. Inside, Jaskier can hear laughter, and underneath that, the singing of a familiar bard.

 _He’s singing again,_ Geralt thinks, joy filling him. Alcohol has made his limbs feel soft, pliant and clumsy, and his emotions seem inclined to follow – he _feels_ things more than he does sober. It is as though his heart has been rendered in childlike crayon, in bold and simple strokes of colour.

He enters the brothel, weaving around at the back of the crowd so that he may remain unnoticed. The tune, Geralt is intimately, irritatingly familiar with – but the lyrics have been changed at some point. Or perhaps Jaskier is making them up as he goes.

“ _Her hands are true and fine,  
Her lips, the red of wine,  
Enchanter of many, enchanted by one._

 _Her hair is raven dark,  
A cruel but fair monarch,  
I ask her to duel but - she’s already won…  
  
Toss a coin to your harlot,  
Her valley of plenty, her valley of plenty,  
Ohhh –_”

He is drunk; that much Geralt can tell just looking at him. His voice is slurring on the words too, although the crowd doesn’t seem to mind. Without any instrument behind him, Jaskier’s voice is unmoored, chaotic – as though he were swinging a great sword around without control or grace.

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt hisses, pushing past the patrons and advancing on the bard until they are close enough to touch. He stops short of putting a hand on him - they are in front of an audience, and he doesn’t want to start a fight.

“With Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier continues singing, giving Geralt a cocky, reckless grin, “Along came this song.”

“Calling Yen a whore will get you killed,” Geralt says, carefully controlling his emotion.

“Are you threatening me?” Jaskier fires back. Geralt wonders how much alcohol he has had. His friend has never been like this with him – angry, defiant and belligerent.

 _Like he has a death wish,_ Geralt thinks, heart sinking. He thinks of the month of long silences and distant looks, and forces himself to channel his anger elsewhere.

“Come with me,” Geralt growls, and pulls Jaskier from the brothel’s main hall into a backroom. Unfortunately for them both, the room contains no less than three couples who are all in various stages of copulation against stacked barrels of wine. Geralt swears, and marches straight through the room to a courtyard, similarly filled with rutting lovers.

Jaskier is laughing hysterically, stumbling along as Geralt tugs at his wrist. He smells of cheap mead; the stench of bitter, sour alcohol and yet still underneath it, faint notes of sweet honey. People stare at them as Geralt barges through the garden without ceremony, dragging the cackling bard behind him. Finally Geralt decides to abandon the quest for privacy as, since it is Belleteyn, they are unlikely to find peace anywhere other than their rooms. He finds a quiet, shaded corner that is somehow not already occupied, and slams Jaskier up against the ivy-laden wall.

“So,” Geralt says. “Out with it.”

Jaskier snarls and struggles against him. “Fuck off, Geralt. What do you want to hear?”

Geralt feels himself absorb Jaskier’s anger, and echo it back twofold. “Whatever it is you had to say. You promised.” He feels his own rage coursing under his skin, spiking adrenaline through his wine-poisoned blood. He feels as though he has cornered a wyvern and is about to slay it. _If Jaskier wants to leave, let him_. Geralt is sick of the bard pretending to be his friend, sick of aborted looks and heavy silences and everything seeming so close to the companionship he wants, yet at the same time distorted and distant.

“Fuck off,” Jaskier hisses, again. “Not like this. No.”

Geralt shoves him harder against the wall, Jaskier’s whole body held with Geralt’s own. Their thighs intersect, and their breaths mingle warmly in the night air. Geralt cannot tell whose heartbeat is beating quickly now, if it is his or Jaskier’s – his _should_ be slower - if it makes a difference – and he remembers, suddenly, that he is drunk, and perhaps Jaskier was right and tonight is a bad time for Jaskier to break Geralt’s heart – Geralt shifts slightly, and Jaskier whimpers – but it isn’t in pain, exactly, Geralt thinks – and Jaskier’s eyes are locked on his, and he smells so overwhelmingly of alcohol, and Geralt glances briefly down, for a second, to his lips, thinking of the red pigment–

“Well, well,” a cool voice calls out behind them. “I see I have arrived just in time to stop you murdering your pet.”

Geralt drops Jaskier immediately, swivelling to find Yennefer of Vengerberg looking at the pair of them with distasteful apathy. Jaskier starts giggling helplessly again.

“What?” Geralt snarls, half to Jaskier and half to Yennefer. Yennefer is the one who replies, however.

“I saw your bard performing earlier, up in the town square,” Yennefer says, eyebrows raised impassively. “He didn’t tell you? He took one look at me and fled. I guess you must find that timid quality of his endearing.”

“I’m right here,” Jaskier says angrily, his laughter having fizzled out as soon as Yennefer had mentioned him.

Yennefer ignores him. “Imagine my lack of surprise when I hear townsfolk whispering of a white-haired witcher in town. You know,” she says, finally addressing Jaskier, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Geralt had cursed you too.”

“Is that how you see it?” Geralt asks. “A curse?”

Yennefer holds his gaze, and then sighs. “I don’t want to fight again, Geralt. As it happens, I might need your help. And–” she says, pausing to look at the garden of lovers around them, at least half of whom have been quite distracted by the commotion they are causing in the corner, “–it is Belleteyn.” She adds this last part quietly. Geralt has always been struck by this, the two sides of her – fierce and gentle, dominating and protective both.

“Happy birthday,” he says, remembering. She smiles, and turns around, leaving the tiniest gap by her right arm where Geralt could slip his hand into hers.

He starts after her, then recalls Jaskier, whom he had, for a moment, forgotten existed. “Um. I’ll. See you back at the room?”

Jaskier’s eyes have glazed over again, and Geralt feels his heart sink. “Don’t bother,” he says, emotionless, not looking at Geralt. “I knew this would happen as soon as I saw her. I’ll get another room, somewhere distant where I can’t hear the noise of a bed being thrown against a wall.” He laughs again, the tinny sound echoing uncomfortably in Geralt’s brain. “You have your fun. I’ll find my own.”

Geralt winces at the obvious pain he has caused his friend, and curses himself for being so physical and terrifying in his confrontation. His heart wants Jaskier to stay, to be his best friend again – and yet he had exaggerated his own power and menace as though he wished to show Jaskier he was right, that Geralt was a monster to be feared.

 _I’ll apologise tomorrow,_ Geralt thinks, hurrying after Yennefer. _I will fix it tomorrow._

He winds his hand around Yennefer’s waist as they leave the tavern, alcohol making him bold. Yennefer tries to shrug him off, but Geralt knows her – knows _them –_ and knows Yen is just putting up a token fight. If she really wanted him gone, she could push him so hard and so fast that he would be dead as soon as he hit the ground. He leans his head into her neck, breathing in her scent. He missed it. He missed her.

“You’re drunk,” Yennefer says, and Geralt marvels that someone can sound so angry and so pleased at the same time. “Hope that doesn’t affect your performance.”

“Never, with you,” Geralt says crossing his arm across his chest in a twisted parody of a knightly oath.

Yennefer laughs, a sound he has missed dearly, and Geralt notices that he is already painfully aroused. It has been too long since he has had sex with anyone – months and months, perhaps more than a year.

“Yen,” he mumbles, and remembers the way her soft body feels under his. The way they move together, the way she looks when she’s strung out with pleasure.

“Oh, fuck it,” Yennefer says abruptly, “this is taking too long,” and she sends them both headfirst into a portal that opens into a lavishly decorated bedroom, complete with a full, magically heated bath.

Geralt can’t fuck her fast enough.

* * *

It is midday before Geralt has mind to rouse himself from bed, thinking of Jaskier’s vacant eyes and hollow tone. “Fuck,” he swears. “Yen, I have to apologise to Jaskier. We got into – an argument. I don’t even know why.”

“Yes,” Yennefer says wryly. “I did find you at the point at which you were about to tear his throat out. Must say, it’s a nice change. I always sort of thought of him as the counterpoint to me in your life. You know, careless, carefree, young, and stupid, and innocent. Someone you would never quarrel with.”

“He’s not stupid,” Geralt says. He’s still too lethargic with pleasure to muster any real bite when he says it.

“And he’s not young anymore, either,” Yen notes mockingly, getting up and donning her underwear and tight-fitting leather pants. Her breasts still hang free, and Geralt takes a moment to appreciate them again before they are cruelly hidden beneath her brassiere.

“Well,” Geralt says, forgetting entirely what they were talking about.

“In any case, I’ll take you back to Dorian – I know better than to keep you from your pet horse and domesticated bard. I need to go back, too. I was in the city for a reason; I’ve been trying to locate the cause of the curse that’s plaguing the land, and one of the places I wanted to check was Magpie Forest. Apparently, the forest remains untouched by the Blight, even though the fields around it wither.”

Geralt comes back to himself and follows Yennefer’s lead in getting dressed. “No, there’s – I dealt with that. It’s old magic keeping it alive, fuelled by leshy making blood sacrifices to provide life to the trees. Speaking of which, I need to talk to the alderman of Dorian about sending a few horses that way.”

“Hmm,” Yennefer says, her eyes glinting with interest. “A fascinating solution. I wonder if something like that could be applied on a wide-scale – it would require thousands of sacrifices of course, but save millions, if–”

“Yen,” Geralt says warningly.

Yennefer smiles. “Oh, Geralt, you’re always like this. It was just hypothetical.”

Geralt grunts, and starts tying his shoulder armour on. “So, this ‘Blight’ isn’t caused by the Lodge or something, I take it?”

Yennefer shakes her head. “It’s – well, to be honest, Geralt,” she says, mask of indifference slipping for a moment, “It’s terrifying. It’s huge, and terrifying. And we don’t know what’s causing it, or where it comes from, or when it will stop. And it isn’t just the fields–”

She summons a scroll to her hands from the bookshelf on the wall, and lays it down on the small dining table across the room. Geralt follows her and peers over her shoulder.

“The crops are all failing here, here, and here,” Yennefer says, pointing at various places across the map. “There are wildfires here, and in this area. Mass uprisings in several towns in the far north. The Red Death, spreading in ways nobody anticipated. Earthquakes in the mountains, and unprecedented storms sweeping the coasts and capsizing hundreds of boats. And worst–” she pauses, and shakes her head, turning back to face Geralt. “Worst of all – we think – we think there might be a sickness that affects _mages._ Not just – a cold. Something that saps them slowly of their magic, and might eventually… kill them.”

She folds her arms, and stares at him defiantly, as though daring him to ask. He does anyway.

“Not you–?”

“No,” she sighs. “Not yet, that I can tell. It’s affecting the weakest mages first. We don’t know how it spreads, or what’s causing that, either. But all these phenomena are too strange to not be connected.”

“So, fearing the destruction of the Lodge and all the power it holds, the alliance of mages has decided to find out whatever it is that threatens them,” Geralt summarises.

“You always speak as though they don’t care about people too,” Yennefer frowns. “They do care, Geralt. It’s just about the bigger picture, what’s best for the realm – for the world. Sometimes the best outcome requires a few sacrifices. Don’t act like you haven’t made the same hard choices when you’ve had to.”

“Mm,” Geralt says, non-committal. “So, back to Dorian? This isn’t wasting your magic, or something, is it?”

He catches a look of guilt crossing Yennefer’s face, and pounces on it. “Yen–”

“Oh, don’t,” Yennefer scoffs. “As I said, I’m probably not infected yet. And it was worth it, to fuck you in a decent bed and not have to worry about the outside world interfering as it is wont to do.”

“I appreciate it,” Geralt tries. “Just. In future, I want you to save your magic, if you can.”

Yennefer grits her teeth, and Geralt can hear her grinding them. It’s a habit he’s always found grating, but he knows better than to mention it to her.

“I’ll act as I see appropriate,” Yennefer says finally. “I have no intention of dying or even coming close to death, if I can help it.”

Geralt smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

* * *

In his defence, it had fully been Geralt’s intention to apologise to Jaskier upon his return to the Golden Oak, but neither Yennefer nor Jaskier allow him the right moment to do so. Yennefer starts immediately bickering with the bard, igniting avid discussion between them heated with terse, yet familial, verbal sparring. There is a modicum of respect somewhere underneath it all, Geralt thinks. Watching them, he is strongly reminded of a man in Toussaint who had surrendered a fight once Geralt had bested him at creative insults.

Much to Geralt's surprise, Jaskier is acting completely himself again. It is as though the previous night had never happened. Geralt decides that as long as Jaskier is acting lively enough to spit pithy remarks about Yennefer’s sexual proclivities, he isn’t going to raise the issue of their fight. The bard avoids his eyes a little more than usual, but he considers that a small price to pay. In truth, delaying the conversation where Jaskier tells him that he wants to part ways may be the best possible outcome; perhaps he feels safer with Yennefer around to protect him from a rabid witcher who might cut out his heart.

 _No, that isn’t it,_ Geralt thinks, dismissing the theory as he watches them bicker. Jaskier and Yennefer _had_ warmed to each other over the years, but that only meant their relationship had gone from frozen ice to tepid water. And as much as Jaskier seems distant and sometimes afraid of Geralt, he had been his companion for decades now - he knows that the myths about witchers are mostly false. Even if the bard now resented their friendship, it was not because he suddenly believed in old wives' tales.

In any case, Yennefer seems to have filled Jaskier in on her mission, chatting with him about the possible causes of the mage disease without restraint. It is as though she expects his participation in her quest - as though she expects _both_ of them to accompany her from now on.

Geralt considers the idea. It has been a long time since the three of them travelled together, and he finds he is not averse to the idea at all. A sense of peace is settling lightly upon his shoulders, one that has been missing for a long time.

“The Blight,” he hears Jaskier say, and looks up to see the bard nodding. “It’s a good name. I will have to thank the Lodge myself.”

Yennefer gives him a look of utter bewilderment. “Why’s that?”

Jaskier grins.

“Well, you know. It makes for an easy rhyme.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the ultimate Witcher OTP, Geralt/Baths.
> 
> Jaskier’s song is obviously a bastardised ‘Toss A Coin’.
> 
> ‘The Blight’ is a borrowed name from the _Dragon Age_ series, although the ‘Blight’ in this fic has nothing to do with darkspawn.
> 
> To all readers, kudos-ers, and especially commenters - I love you so much, thanks for cheering me along!


	8. Blathe - Part One

Geralt fucking hates portals.

There’s a reason he’s always made his own way around, even when Yennefer is travelling with him. Portals are swirling dark voids of Hell that make Geralt feel as though his bones are dissolving in his body and seeping out through his skin. He has never been completely certain he is the same person on the other end – perhaps his body is killed in one place, and reassembled someplace else.

It is therefore just his luck that they have been subjected to weeks and weeks of nothing but _fucking portals_. At least he is not suffering alone; Jaskier throws up violently every time they pass through one of Yennefer’s ‘magical doorways’, and Roach has taken to bolting or rearing up every time the sorceress comes into sight.

“We women have to stick together,” Yennefer says sternly, and Geralt has never known a horse to look so murderous.

They have bounced their way back and forth across the continent, from the mountainous lands of Poviss and Kovir in the north to the lands of the Empire in the south. They have stayed in the great cities of Cidaris in the west, and Lyria in the east. They have visited the dwarves, and the elves, and the gnomes. They have spoken to halflings, and merpeople, and nymphs. They have broken bread with succubi, and vampires, and even spoken with a wide-eyed godling that they had found watching their camp from the hollow of a fallen log.

Despite that, despite all their work, despite almost two months of searching, they have found nothing of real use. Only two things are clear – first, that the Blight knows no geographic boundaries. Travellers in Nilfgaard say that across the seas, other lands are beginning to similarly face failed crops, erratic weather, and mysterious illnesses. The second thing they have realised is that it is not only mages who are succumbing to the disease. Monsters, too, are weaker than Geralt has ever seen them – drowners lay dead and dying without Geralt touching them, foglets lacked the strength to discorporate themselves, and nekkers huddled in shivering packs, their attacks slow and sluggish.

Meanwhile, the Lodge has been growing increasingly frantic in its attempt to find a cure. Yennefer usually communicated to her sisters in private using her megascopes, but Geralt had heard raised voices more than once. On one memorable occasion, Yennefer stormed out from a meeting with enough anger that the winds began shifting and the clouds turned dark. (Of course, Geralt cannot prove the correlation – but he does not think the lightning strikes that occur while he’s making love to Yennefer afterwards are coincidental.)

They are lying side by side in a lavish bed, in the citadel of Kaer Trolde, when Yennefer confesses to him her greatest sorrow.

“Geralt,” she says, and Geralt has known her for long enough that he knows only something truly awful could make her eyebrows tilt up with such sorrow.

 _She has been infected,_ he thinks. _The Blight has come for her, too._

“We’ll fix it,” he promises, and she doesn’t meet his eyes. Her long black hair is fanned out between them, the warm candlelight making her sweaty skin shine luminously. Not for the first or last time, Geralt marvels at how beautiful she is.

“You know,” she says, turning over to stare up at the ceiling. “All this time, and if I really am to die – the only regret I have is that – we never found…”

Tears slip from her eyes, and she sniffs. Geralt rubs away the tears, brushing them aside with a swipe of his thumb.

“I know,” Geralt says. Ciri’s name lies between them, unspoken, as though speaking it aloud would make her truly gone. “Yen, you aren’t going to die.”

She shakes her head again, narrowing her lips and smiling. “We’re trying _everything_ – of course we are, it’s our survival on the line – but nothing works. The theory is the Blight is undoing the magic that keeps us young, and so we will eventually crumble into the dust that we are made of.”

The thought is horrifying.

“Jaskier says all of us are made of dust,” Geralt says abruptly, remembering a conversation they’d had years and years ago. “Why should yours be any different? He says that if mages fully understood how to put dust back together, it could reassemble the dead.”

Yennefer sighs. “The Academy is full of idiots who know too much and too little. There is no putting back a soul that has crossed Beyond – that is a line even the most powerful mages cannot breach. Of course, souls that have recently departed, or have not yet passed that boundary are perhaps a different issue – but we’re getting into technicalities…”

“I will bring you back,” Geralt swears, and Yennefer looks at him with a mixture of fondness and annoyance.

“For the love of – oh, you damn fool,” she says and kisses him. Her smile is loving, but her dark violet eyes still hold the glimmer of tears. “You don’t know a thing about it. Even if you could somehow force my soul back, my body will have disintegrated. Not even I could accomplish such a thing – and you know how I rage and fight against the impossible.”

“I do,” Geralt says, and kisses her again. “But I won’t rest until you’re back, Yen. I can’t live without you. Our fates are tied, are they not? If I cannot be with you here, I will follow your soul where it goes.”

“Yes,” she says sadly. “I know you will.”

* * *

It is the middle of the year, and yet evenings in Skellige remain as freezing as a Kaedweni winter. The islands are not that far north, and so Geralt imagines the climate is caused by a combination of sea currents and high coastal winds.

The witcher is particularly exposed to the chill as he stands upon a harbour pier. He’s already internally cursing Yennefer for assigning him to the job of storm-spotting, a job she doubtless knew would freeze his balls off. He supposes he should be grateful – she has been staying inside recently, a sign that she is conserving her magic and no longer using it to warm her body – but at the current moment, his mind does not expand much further than resentment for the cold drizzle that is beginning to soak through his clothes. Still, he stands, and watches the clouds on the murky grey horizon.

The storms around Skellige had been so violent that the Isles' inhabitants had been unwilling to venture out in their drakkars. Broken bodies of ships and men both washed up upon the shores with alarming frequency. The Islanders spoke of an angry sea-goddess, whose wrath had been turned upon mankind for one reason or another. Perhaps a sailor had killed one of her mermaid-servants; perhaps her lover had been stolen and kept prisoner. The stories varied, but the solution remained the same – appease the goddess, and the storms would cease.

Yennefer had informed King Bran upon their arrival that she suspected the weather to be induced by the Blight, and that the unseasonal storms were the cause of her visit. He had welcomed news of their mission to end the calamity, but his old, tired eyes had not lit up with any sort of hope.

Geralt notices the wind change suddenly, and watches as a dark cloud sweep up the coast from the south. Waves splutter upwards, and lightning crackles upon the swell in front of him. Then, just as quickly, the storm pocket seems to dissolve into nothing.

 _Unnatural,_ Geralt thinks. The sea continues to roil, waves spitting salty spray up against his face.

Satisfied that he has gained a sense of the storm’s direction, he returns to the harbour town. To his surprise, he finds Yennefer at the bottom of the great stairway, huddled up in an oversized mink coat and leaning against the cliffside. Her haughty face is a small pale circle engulfed by mounds of black hair and fur, and Geralt is vaguely amused by the thought that she looks completely unthreatening, and – for once – somewhat adorable.

“Any luck?” Yennefer says, squinting against the frosty gale.

Geralt nods. “You were right – the storms are coming from the south.”

The sorceress frowns, and adjusts the shoulder of her coat to draw it more firmly over her chest. “I suspected as much, but – the magical energy around here is so erratic that I could not even be sure of that.”

“We’ll report back to King Bran,” Geralt says. “Let’s stay for the Midsummer feast tonight, and then make our way southwards tomorrow morning. Do you think you can find a ship that will take us?”

Yennefer huffs in amusement. “Ah yes, take a ship into the heart of the storms which have decimated their people. I’m sure that will be a small thing to ask.” She rolls her eyes, and then launches herself lightly away from the cliff wall she had been leaning upon. “Shall we?”

They ascend the stairs of Kaer Trolde, the ancient stone steps guarded by newly constructed wooden barriers. In the winter, when winds howled along the cape, waves lashed at the city, and frost covered the ground, the railings often fell to pieces and many people had been known to slip and fall to their death. Sometimes a landslide occurred, leaving the locals to travel to and from the citadel solely by way of rudimentary rafts, pulled up and down the cliffside by ropes. Thankfully, they were spared that particular passage on this occasion – Geralt would rather face ten griffins than be in that rickety thing going up a cliffside with high winds.

About half way up the ascent, Yennefer starts getting short of breath.

“Not getting out enough, Yen,” Geralt teases, waiting for her to catch up. “You’ll start to get more exercise now that you can’t magic your way everywhere.”

She shoots him a scathing look. “At least _my_ constitution can handle portals. Anyway, it would be a shame not to put Crach’s hospitality to good use – after all, he made sure I had a room with such a lovely, large, _comfortable_ bed. One I left to join _you_ down in this miserable place.”

“Is that so,” Geralt says mildly, resuming his hike. “I hope Crach knows that I am joining you in that bed.”

Yennefer cackles for a moment, before deciding her breath is best conserved for the thin mountain air. “Jealous, Geralt? I thought you liked the man.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies. “Perhaps I just cannot conceive of a man letting go of you.”

It’s meant as a compliment, but Yennefer doesn’t reply. When Geralt goes back, she’s looking at him with an indecipherable expression.

They continue on, and Geralt doesn't think he is imagining the strain in the silence between them.

“He asked after her,” Yennefer says eventually, the words heavy. “He said – he said she might be dead. That such a storm, such an unnatural turning of the world might be nature revolting against the death of a daughter of Riannon.”

“The Islanders are a superstitious people,” Geralt says immediately, even as his heart hammers in his chest. “It doesn’t mean anything, Yen.”

“Maybe…” the sorceress replies. She trails off, looking out towards the waves crashing against the distant cliffs. Geralt suppresses the melancholy in his heart, and continues to climb the steps.

 _I would know,_ he thinks fiercely. _I would know if she were gone._

They reach the top in due course, Yennefer immediately collapsing upon a nearby stone wall to rest and brace her legs. Even Geralt has to admit his thighs and calves are burning in a way they have not for many years.

"Lady Yennefer!” a voice booms out. “I had wondered where you had gotten to!”

A great, ruddy-coloured man comes bounding towards them, as tall as he is wide. It is hard now to imagine Crach an Craite as a young lover; he had grown into age like a fine wine, filling out the bulky chainmail and furs of an Islander warrior. His russet beard seemed to mingle with the fur on his cape, such that he and his mellow toned clothing seem to be part of the same entity.

“Greetings, Crach,” Yennefer says with warmth. “Just gone down to scout around the harbour. You know what an ordeal it is to get up and down those steps.”

“Aye,” Crach says sadly. “But they won’t let us run the lift pulleys with the storms so unpredictable.”

Privately, Geralt is thankful for that. He even prefers magic portals to the terror of travelling by the pulley system.

“I was wondering if y’would be free tonight to do something for me,” Crach says, looking nervously towards the sorceress. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he blushes, the pink in his cheeks clashing horribly with his hair. “Ach, no, not like that. It’s my children – Cerys and Hjalmar. I was wondering if you’d have a word with them – they’ve both started to make a fuss over things recently. They’ve always been little firecrackers, but now… well, both of them think they know how to rule better than our King. Add wine to that, and I’m worried they’ll end the night with an axe between their shoulders.”

“Cerys?” Yennefer inquires, quirking her thin eyebrow. “Your daughter wants to rule? Would she be a good Queen?”

Crach blinks three times in succession. “Well, she’s got some rather spirited ideas, but they’re the naïve ideas of youth. She thinks we should find a way to study the storms in order to navigate them. Meanwhile, Hjalmar wants to brave the storms himself – he’d be out there right now, if I hadn’t threatened him with exile. Both of them would send even _more_ people into this maelstrom to die.” He hangs both hands on his hips, and sighs heavily. “A few more years until either of them is ready for power, I should think.”

Yennefer smiles. “Cerys is wise. The storms are not natural, as I have told you myself. If they continue, the Islanders will starve to death within a year or so.”

Crach waves his hand up and down exasperatedly. “You say that as though the mainlanders have plenty of food for the taking. Even if we could launch raiders back upon the seas, it is likely that we would have to pillage towns for supplies, rather than merchant and Imperial vessels. Taking from the poor has never been our style.”

Yennefer scoffs. “Survival is not about style.”

“You’re one to talk,” Crach says moodily, looking pointedly at her fur coat.

“In any case,” Geralt interrupts. “It is our hope that we might stop the Blight before it comes to that. Yen and I need a vessel to take us south. Do you know of any ships that would take us?”

Crach looks at him with incredulity. “In this weather? Can you not, er…” He makes a waggling gesture with his fingers, and mimes wanting to throw up.

Yennefer raises another eyebrow at him. “I’m trying to conserve my magic. Even if I could, the energy around the source of the storms is too chaotic – I can’t pinpoint their location. Without knowing where I’m travelling, I’d just be hopping around the islands hoping to get closer, wasting my power every time I did.”

“Hm. Unfortunately, Bran has forbidden the Islanders from sailing on the ocean while the storms persist. I’ll make inquiries tonight, but I make no promises. I cannot command men against the orders of the king.”

He turns to Geralt, and looks pointedly at his leather armour. “You need to get yourself cleaned up before the feast. If you need different clothes, send for my seneschal, Arnvald. You’ve met him, I trust?”

Yennefer nods. “He helped us settle into our rooms. They are lovely, by the way. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, Crach.”

The jarl smiles. “You always liked your spacious luxury, Yennefer. I did not forget.”

Geralt feels a mild twinge of irritation as the two exchange fond glances. He clears his throat. “Let’s get going, Yen. The feast will start soon, and you usually need quite a bit of time to get ready for such festivities.”

Yen glares at him, but her anger passes as quickly as the storm had. “Oh - _fine_ , Geralt. I suppose you're right. I’ll see you tonight, Crach,” she adds, and kisses the jarl’s cheek in farewell.

They walk along the high walkways of the citadel, blustering winds occasionally buffeting their hair around their faces. For the most part, the stronghold was constructed within the shelter of the mountains, designed to evade the frigid gales that haunt the harbourside. It seems that the weather is unsettled enough to counteract this design, and they hurry along the narrow stone crossings at a slightly faster pace than they might otherwise. Although Geralt knows the bridges have stood solid for centuries, he still can never quite shake the instinctual fear that comes from travelling so far above a steep drop.

“You get ready in Jaskier’s room,” Yennefer says, as they near their chambers. When Geralt starts to complain, she cuts him off. “Well, you always whine about how long I take – and we both know that if you get dressed in the same room as I, you’ll find an excuse to distract me, and then we will _both_ be late. Not something we can afford right now – it sounds like we need all the goodwill we can get to find a ship that will take us.”

“Fine,” Geralt says mulishly.

Yennefer smirks evilly. “Luckily, Jaskier has a much better sense of fashion than you do. I’m sure he’ll make sure you look appropriate for our hosts.”

Geralt has a momentary flash of memory to another feast, years ago, in Cintra. Clenching his teeth and fearing the worst, he turns on his heel and marches along the corridor to Jaskier’s room. He knocks twice, and enters without waiting for a reply.

To his surprise, the room is empty. Well, empty of Jaskier – a vast collection of clothes are strewn about the place haphazardly, metallic threads shining alongside studded gemstones and coloured leathers. Geralt runs his fingers over a pleated vest on a chair by the door, knowing even as he does that it isn’t Jaskier’s. It is too big for him, and smells unfamiliar.

“Oh, Geralt,” a voice says behind him. He turns and finds Arnvauld staring at him, both arms draped with assorted garments. “I was just going to look for you. Come in, come in,” he says, and leads them both into Jaskier’s chambers.

“Where do all these come from?” Geralt asks, gesturing to the mess around them. “They look far more fanciful than your usual fare, even for a feast.”

“Ah, yes,” Arnvauld says hastily. “Well, most Skelligans are a little – taller, and bulkier than your friend. And he claimed our clothes weren’t to his taste – ‘too vulgar’, he said – so I sent for some of the finery we’ve taken in past raids.”

“I see,” Geralt says, looking at the leather pants hanging on a torch-stand, studded with what looks like diamonds.

“He told me to go and get some more ‘ _witcher-appropriate_ ’ clothes for you, so I fetched some of our more traditional wear from our stores.” The man lays the clothes out on top of Jaskier’s discarded choices, a collection of black leathers threaded with plaid designs. “Of course, each plaid belongs to a particular house, so I advise you choose a politically neutral choice.”

“Politically neutral?” Geralt says curiously. “Surely the safest bet would be the King’s own colours.”

Arnvauld looks nervous. “As you know, Geralt, the kings of Skellige are elected by the clan jarls. And King Bran – well, he’s getting on in his years, and already his successors are vying for attention. In particular, Queen Birna is pushing for her son Svanrige to take the crown after Bran, something that sits none too well with the jarls.”

“Hmm. So wearing the King’s colours might indicate I support his son to be the next in line? That’s a rather roundabout way of thinking,” Geralt says, running his hands up a robe of some sort with bright yellow checks.

“Tensions are high, and everyone has been bottled up together in these stone walls for too long. Gossip is the only source of entertainment.”

“Well,” Geralt says, picking up a furred coat. “What do you advise? Shall I take on Crach’s colours? He is the one upon whose hospitality we are depending most.”

Arnvauld nods. “It’s a good excuse. And Crach is one of the most favoured men to take the crown, should it come to a vote. I do not know if the man wants it, but he would have the votes if he did.”

Geralt looks down at the pile of clothes, and chooses a shirt patterned with the red and black of Clan an Craite. Small ships are embroidered into the stripes, spiralling out from a central point upon the right breast.

“An excellent choice, sir,” Arnvauld beams. “May I suggest pairing these pants, and perhaps this jacket?” The man points towards two black garments made of tight leather. Geralt supposes it could be worse – while the clothes are more decorative than practical, at least Clan an Craite is a family with a subdued colour scheme.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Arnvauld says, gathering up some of the rejected items from around the room. He exits quietly, the door creaking shut behind him.

Geralt strips, shoving his clothes into a cupboard alongside Jaskier’s lute. He has just managed to button shut the leather pants when the door slams open again.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and he stares at Geralt for a moment. “What are you doing here?”

“Yen kicked me out,” Geralt says shortly. “Apparently she needs the whole damn room to get ready.”

A voice giggles behind Jaskier, and a girl’s head pops around the doorway. Her hair is a long, tangled mess of orange, and it tumbles all the way to the floor.

“Oh!” she squeaks, and blinks rapidly. She disappears back behind the doorframe, and Geralt can hear her whisper furiously to Jaskier.

“You didn’t tell me you shared a room with the _White Wolf,_ ” she hisses.

“I don’t,” Jaskier says, turning to her. “Not these days, anyway.” He addresses Geralt, but his eyes are still locked on the girl. “Yustianna and I were just going to have a bit of a pre-feast celebration, but I suppose – I suppose that can wait.” He shakes his head at the girl and Geralt hears her laugh. “Run along, I’ll find you later.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if he joins,” Yustianna says, appearing again and looking wickedly between Geralt and Jaskier. Jaskier’s mouth twists into a hard line, and he ignores her.

“I said, _go_.”

“Fine,” Yustianna says sulkily. “Don’t blame me if I find someone more fun in the meantime, though.”

She takes off in a huff, and Jaskier enters the room, closing it solidly behind him. Geralt starts to offer an apology, but Jaskier waves him off.

“It’s fine,” Jaskier says airily. “I didn’t really want her, anyway. Just trying to have half as much fun as you two have on your unicorn.”

“No unicorn,” Geralt says, resuming the process of getting dressed. His words are muffled slightly as he tries to fit his arms through the sleeves of the shirt, the cloth falling around his head as he does so. “Yennefer only transports necessities from place to place.”

“And that thing _isn’t_ considered a necessity?” Jaskier says. The words are meant as a jest, but he sounds sounds more bitter than Geralt can remember him being for quite some time. The witcher is not entirely surprised that he can smell the barest hints of alcohol upon his breath. His sense of smell is good enough to pick up on it, even with half a room between them.

“You’ve been drinking, I see,” Geralt says mildly. He does not want to fight Jaskier while the bard is intoxicated. Their confrontation in Dorian still haunts him, and he wakes up sometimes sweating to the traces of the memory, warped by his nightmares.

Jaskier, however, seems similarly disinclined towards conflict. “It’s a feast,” the bard shrugs. “It’s what people do. That shirt barely fits you, by the way,” he says, eyes darting down to Geralt’s chest.

“Yeah,” Geralt says, halfway to a growl. “I can feel it constraining my arms. But apparently half of these damn clothes will cause insult to one house or another, so at least Clan an Craite’s vestments won’t land me in a fight defending a jarl I know nothing about.”

Jaskier shrugs again, a half-hearted gesture that barely requires any movement of his shoulder muscles. “I just went with the foreign stuff. Seemed easier – although I admit I am relying on your interference if one of them mistakes me for a Nilfgaardian.”

He has apparently chosen the most subdued of the options he was presented, a slim black ensemble that is not dissimilar to Geralt’s own choice of clothing. It is unremarkable save for the silver birds that line his collar, and for the single earring that dangles from one earlobe. Three small raven feathers are bound together on the chain, their tips brushing against his beard and shoulder.

Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend entirely in black before. It is a flattering look, but extremely discomforting at the same time. Jaskier is a man who seems to have been born into colour; seeing him without it is like seeing a different man entirely.

“You’re – you look different,” Geralt manages, although the moment he says so he doesn’t wonder if it would have been better to say nothing at all.

Jaskier snorts. “What can I say? You and Yennefer have both been a poor influence on me. And, since I am not playing in taverns anymore, I hardly need to stand out.”

 _You sang in Dorian_ , Geralt wants to point out, although he values their tentative peace too much to disturb it. _You used to play at feasts just like this one._

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, and then second-guesses himself.

They look at each other for a moment, and Geralt tries to find the courage to continue.

“We should get to the feast,” Jaskier says, and smiles. It’s his old smile, a genuine one – the one he wears upon his face most every day. Yet Geralt feels as though his friend looks older than he ever has, more tired. There are small wrinkles developing around his eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. “I’m sorry – for our fight. Things seem almost back to normal between us, and yet now and again I feel as though you are here out of obligation rather than friendship.”

Jaskier’s eyes flash with sadness, and something like acceptance. “Ah. You don’t want me coming along anymore.”

“That isn’t what I said,” Geralt replies furiously. “I want your company more, it seems, than you want mine.”

That seems to stump his friend, and he furrows his brow in confusion. “You want my company that much?”

“Of course I do,” Geralt says exasperatedly. “Have I not made that clear? In Dorian–”

“In Dorian, a great many things happened, not the least of which was that you found Yennefer again,” Jaskier interrupts in a rush. He hesitates, and then lowers his tone. “Apologies. I’m being unfair.” He looks at Geralt hesitantly, and then continues. “It’s just you have been spending quite a lot of time with Yennefer, and I felt perhaps I had been intruding. I’m rather useless, compared to the both of you, and you both spend half your time protecting me from whatever’s attacking us.”

“Even so,” Geralt says. “You see things that we might not. Don’t discount your intelligence, Jaskier, or your education.”

Jaskier grants Geralt a small grin. “Ah, so you keep me around for my brain, then? Last I heard, I was a ‘great, inconsiderate dolt’.”

Geralt winces. “She calls me that too, if it helps.”

“She shows fondness in curious ways, then,” Jaskier replies with a raised eyebrow and a rueful smile. “I’ll take this over the unicorn, I suppose.”

Geralt flinches again at the brief, imagined scene of Yennefer and Jaskier together, naked on the unicorn’s back.

“If I have been neglecting our friendship, I apologise. I had no intent of doing so.”

Jaskier laughs. “It’s fine, I’m just being a child. Shall we go to the feast? If I embarrass myself further today, I should at least have heavy drinking as an excuse.”

Geralt nods, and finds that Jaskier has resumed his usual cheery countenance.

“You don’t have to do that,” Geralt says harshly. Jaskier’s expression flickers, and his smile fades.

“What?”

“That,” Geralt says, waving a hand at his friend’s face. “That thing, where you pretend to feel happy, even when you aren’t. You don’t have to do it around me.”

Jaskier laughs in disbelief. “Bloody hell, Geralt. I had forgotten how stubborn you are.” He scratches his head sheepishly, and looks up at the ceiling, as though to look anywhere but at Geralt. “You should leave an actor with his dignity, you know.”

“Maybe you’d fool others,” Geralt says, staring at the bard, determined to meet his eyes again. “But not me, Jaskier. I know you too well.”

“Mm,” Jaskier says, eyes flickering back to Geralt. “Too well, indeed. I didn’t mean to deceive you, only to smooth things over. I mean,” he says, chuckling again. “It’s the fate of the bloody world on the line here, Geralt. There are more important things than the waxing and waning of my moods.”

“I’ve never known you to be so selfless,” Geralt says, cocking an eyebrow at him, even though it isn’t really true. Jaskier could be remarkably kind to others, particularly Geralt.

“Call it character development, then,” Jaskier says, his eyes glimmering with amusement. "The hero has finally learned from past mistakes." He keeps looking at Geralt, and then away again.

“Fine, fine,” Geralt says, sighing. There’s still an undercurrent to their conversation, but the witcher knows instinctually that pursuing it tonight will lead him nowhere. “The feast, then. We’ll have time to enjoy ourselves before Yennefer joins – she’ll take a while yet. What do sorceresses _do_ that takes so long?”

Jaskier claps Geralt on the shoulder as they leave his chambers. “Cheer up, old friend. A woman must have some mystery about her, or men would get bored.”

“I wouldn’t _get bored,_ ” Geralt mutters under his breath, and the thought of Yennefer as a boring housewife is so patently ludicrous that he feels somewhat cheered by the humorous concept.

A serving man greets them at the entrance to the hall, blinking at them over a large clipboard. “Geralt of Rivia, the witcher known as the White Wolf,” he says. “And Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. The Jarl told me in advance of your attendance. Would you like to be announced as you enter?”

“Absolutely not,” Jaskier says firmly. “Just let us sneak in like the reprobates we are, there’s a good man.”

The hall is decorated with the spoils of plunder, assorted amphoras lined along the walls and swords mounted above them. Shields of different clans have been placed on all sides of the great stone columns, while an enormous horned helmet has been placed above the central hearth. Geralt imagines it once belonged to an ice giant, slain by the Islanders many years ago. The giants were an ancient race, who had all but disappeared from the Isles. They lived on now in legends of the brave warriors who the Islanders worshipped as fervently as their deities.

The crowd of feast-goers is gathered in rough patches of grouped colours, each table distinguished by the plaids and patterns belonging to its clan. Arnvauld appears out of nowhere, and kindly escorts them over to one of the only tables whose guests are dressed with a variety of different plaids. A young woman with bright red hair rises as they approach, and Geralt recognises her as Crach’s daughter.

“Geralt, Jaskier,” the seneschal says. “May I introduce you to Cerys an Craite, often known in these parts as ‘Sparrowhawk’.”

He nods towards the brooding man beside her. “Her brother, and Crach’s firstborn son, Hjalmar an Craite, known also as ‘Wrymouth’.”

“Arnvauld, you never do these introductions any justice with that dull voice of yours,” Cerys interrupts. “Here, I’ll do the rest. You go back to whatever boring jobs need doing elsewhere.”

Arnvauld allows only the briefest flicker of irritation to cross his face. “As you wish, my lady.” He bows lowly, and retreats from their table.

Cerys rolls her eyes. “Allow me the dubious honour of introducing your other feast-mates. This is Halbjorn, son of Holger Blackhand. Blueboy Lugos, Madman Lugos’ firstborn. And that idiot trying to swallow a stockfish whole is Otrygg an Hindar.”

“Well met,” Geralt says, although he feels he might struggle to differentiate the men if pressed. All three have near-identical faces and stocky builds; all three are wearing thick black furs over their formal wear, and are looking up at him with equal expressions of detached impassivity. Otrygg, at least, has a black moustache and beard that has been parted into two plaits, and his outfit seems a little more colourful than the other two.

“I am Geralt of Rivia, a witcher. This is my companion, the bard Jaskier.”

“I’ve always wanted to meet you properly, Geralt,” Cerys says excitedly, brown eyes dancing with excitement. “Last time you visited our da, Hjalmar and I were children. It feels exciting to meet a man of legend – perhaps _you_ will motivate the half-wits around here to actually do something about this disaster.”

“Intend to do something about it myself,” Geralt says, sitting down at the table alongside Jaskier. Cerys follows, sitting eagerly opposite his place. 

“I suppose _you’ll_ be setting off against the storms, then” Hjalmar says, in a belligerent voice that snarls and lashes out on every consonant. Something about the man’s yellowed mane and furs reminds Geralt of a caged lion.

“Haven’t you heard?” one of the men says, nodding towards Geralt. “Haven’t you seen the sorceress around the citadel? They have magic, Hjalmar. Sailing in a storm without a mage to guide the way is suicide.”

“If we still had Marquard, we could do it ourselves,” Hjalmar grunts. Geralt sees Cerys cast a warning look towards her brother, and he dutifully trails off, deciding instead to shove a spoon into his pumpkin soup with more much more aggression than is necessary.

Marquard, Geralt remembers, had been one of the mages who had died in the Thanedd coup. Yennefer had once said he had been the only Islander who was as powerful as she. He supposes the loss of such a formidable sorcerer must have been terribly disheartening for the Islanders, although they weren’t to know that their odds in a fight against Nilfgaard were being greatly levelled by the Blight affecting the other mages’ powers.

“A wise king knows who to send into battle, and when it is time to send them,” Cerys says, seemingly quoting someone Geralt is unfamiliar with. “Oh – that must be the very sorceress now.”

Geralt and Jaskier turn around in their seat, and see Yennefer striding towards them. She is even more beautiful than usual, her lipstick bright and bold, and her violet eyes made even more striking by the black kohl that frames them. Her dress is tight-fitting black silk, with an ostentatious collar made from dark, gleaming feathers.

Geralt blinks, and looks sideways at Jaskier. The two of them are matched so well, it is uncanny – he would almost suppose they were a travelling act, a pair of twins who performed tricks with a wandering circus.

If Yennefer notices the similarity, she makes no comment on it. “There you are. I suppose I have you to thank for Geralt's tasteful choice in clothing, Jaskier, although you might have chosen a less tight-fitting shirt.”

Geralt sighs wearily, as Jaskier snorts behind a raised glass of mead.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg, I assume,” Cerys says, rising again from the table. “Come, sit among us – we are all your friends here. Geralt was just telling us that you plan to stop the storms ravaging our coasts.”

Yennefer smiles, and steps over the bench. She sits next to Geralt, squeezed in between the witcher and Blueboy Lugos. 

Cerys pours her a glass of red wine, which she accepts gratefully. “Cerys, daughter of Crach an Craite,” Yennefer replies formally. “And Hjalmar, son of Crach an Craite. Well met.”

“We are sorry we cannot provide a more suitable feast for such fine guests,” Hjalmar says, reddening slightly under Yennefer’s gaze. “The takings have been meagre, with the storms around. Our supplies dwindle, but we still have enough wine and mead to celebrate with. If we cannot lift our own spirits, there is barely a point to living at all.”

Cerys nods approvingly. Hjalmar sounds more like his father now, and with his current ruddy complexion he is the very spitting image of the man.

“Ach, it’s so,” Lugos says sadly. “Feasts pasts, we had platters of fine cheeses from all around the kingdom. Mounts of fresh fruits, a full pig for every table. Blessed milk from the temples of Melitele, and fine fowl snatched from right under Nilfgaardian noses. Now we are considered lucky to share a single cow between five clans.”

“Your people are surviving as well as they can,” Yennefer says soothingly.

“I’d have us do more than just survive,” Cerys says, frowning down at the single apple upon her plate. “But the storms have crippled us. King Bran has locked us down like chickens in a coop, clucking and pecking at each other uselessly. I would have us learn the ways to pass through the storms as our ancestors once learned the ways of the seas. I believe there is some pattern to it, some meaning we might divine. I don’t believe it’s the wrath of a goddess. In my experience, there is always a way through a problem, if one knows where to look for it.”

Geralt and Yenenfer exchange a brief look.

“We have been investigating these phenomena with much that idea,” Yennefer confesses. “There are many sorceresses, working across the Continent as we speak. All of them, trying to understand what has caused these calamities, and what we might do to undo it.”

Cerys scowls. “I wish I had such power, to do as you do. Instead, I am trapped on this island, unable to overrule the men around me, unable to go off on my own to save our people.”

“Perhaps your time will come,” Yennefer says. “There may be better ways to gain power than to be what I am.” She smiles sadly for a moment, then seems to remember their company. “In any case, I can guarantee we are doing what we can, for the sake of those who cannot.”

“So, Witcher,” Otrygg says, in a loud and friendly voice. “I suppose that means you’re not here to simply collect coin on some muire d’yaeblen. A shame, as we’ve had quite the problem with them recently. Seems they’re breeding what with all the corpses lying around the beaches.”

“Afraid I don’t have time,” Geralt says. “Actually, we’re in need of a crew to sail with us. I don’t suppose any of you have ships and men willing to brave the storm?”

The three men from other clans seem suddenly very interested in various points upon the ceiling or walls. Hjalmar and Cerys, however, glance at each other, before staring intensely at Geralt.

“Our father has forbidden us from leaving the island,” Cerys says shaking her head. “He says that if we do, he will cast us out from Clan an Craite.”

“An overprotective fool,” Hjalmar growls.

“But,” Cerys continues, “We know someone who might be willing to aid his ship and crew. He goes by the name of Asmund, and I’ve never met a nobler man. He is not quite Skelligan – truth be told I am not sure where he comes from – but he’s well known to the Islanders none the less.”

“Good man,” Hjalmar grunts. “Stays out of the way, brings fair tribute.”

“He’s trustworthy,” Cerys says, nodding. “Find Asmund, and tell him you’re a friend of Clan an Craite. Tell him you might be able to stop the storms, but you need his ship to do so. The Islanders have been prohibited from sailing on open water by King Bran while the storms rage, but Asmund is not of Skellige – he is not bound by our laws, and by our king.”

“And he knows how to handle a ship, that one,” Hjalmar adds, pounding his fist upon the table with approval. Some of the plates and cups jump up and down a little around his hand, so powerful is the impact of his gesture.

“He’s your best bet,” Cerys concludes.

“Is he here tonight?” Yennefer asks, looking around the hall.

Cerys furrows her brow into a scowl. “No. Feasts are only for those in the clans, and their honoured guests. I’d change that, if I were – well, I’d change that. We’ve a good many people who have settled on Skellige’s islands recently. There are so many refugees from the Continent, they outnumber the Islanders in some towns.”

“It’s not right,” Halbjorn says lowly, speaking for the first time. He glares at Cerys mutinously over his tankard of mead. “These foreigners don’t belong on our lands.”

“That short-sighted attitude is going to get you and half of this damn kingdom killed,” Cerys says exasperatedly. “We should welcome them as our own, and see our country grow strong with their numbers. All Islanders know is rooted in our history of plundering others’ wealth – we could learn from them instead, create our own trades. If this storm has taught us anything, it’s that we can’t rely on the seas or the spoils of war alone.”

“The storm’s unnatural, Cerys,” declares Hjalmar in his booming voice. “Don’t use it to further your twisted agenda.”

Cerys looks murderous for a moment, but then she carefully neutralises her expression.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Jaskier says hastily, to fill the brief, tense gap in conversation. “You know, historically diversity has always helped a population. Oh, well, except for when it leads to civil war, or er, massacres – but from a purely scientific perspective–”

“Oh shut it, bard,” Halbjorn snaps suddenly, and his words cause spittle to rain down upon the platter of apples in front of his face. “Nobody asked for your poncey opinion.”

Jaskier whimpers, and sinks down in his chair.

“Watch it, Islander,” Geralt snarls. “You may be the son of a jarl, but I won’t hesitate to shove a sword in your neck if you speak to my friend like that.”

“And I won’t hesitate to shove a sword up your arse,” Cerys adds. “These are friends of my father. You think you have a chance against a Witcher, a sorceress, and the forces of Clan an Craite?”

The man seems to reconsider at this, and chuckles, waving his hands up for peace. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your friend, Sparrowhawk.”

“Ugh,” Cerys says, throwing her hands down upon the table and standing up once more. “Men. I’m going to get more wine for the table. I pray you make a better show of Islander hospitality while I’m gone, you four.”

The men look duly chastened, and Cerys disappears into the crowd with a whip of her long plait. Halbjorn mutters something and excuses himself from the table.

“Sorry about him,” Lugos says, taking up his eating utensils again. “He’s feeling chained to this damn rock, as we all are. He just deals with it by taking out his frustration on everyone else.

“We Skelligans are an aggressive sort, but we burn fast and hot and mean nothing by it. Our bark’s worse than our bite,” Otrygg says cheerfully.

“Don’t tell him that, Otrygg,” Lugos says, waving a fork full of potato exasperatedly at the other man. “Reputation is what we trade by. You go around telling the Continentals that we’re not actually as bad as the tales say, and we’ll have to start killing ships full of people again just to repair your damage.”

“You _don’t_ kill ships full of people?” Jaskier asks curiously.

Hjalmar laughs uproariously, his voice booming so loudly that people on other tables turn to look at him.

“You want to know our secrets little bard?” he says eventually, holding his heaving chest with one hand. He wipes away a tear from his eye, and peers down at Jaskier across the table. “I’ll tell you. The sailors – Black Ones, Red Ones, Blue Ones, wherever they come from – they take one look at us, and they wave the white flag of surrender. Everyone has heard of the raiders of the Skellige Isles, and none are foolish enough to cross us.”

He grins viciously, his teeth bared in venomous delight. Geralt thinks for a moment that he looks so savage, he could well be a werebear – or, as they were known on Skellige – a berserker.

The next hour or so is filled with the clansmen telling the three of them of their exploits upon the seas. Cerys returns, and feeds the three of them tales of her own adventures, which Geralt is not surprised to learn are even more impressive than the men’s. They are so passionate and energetic in their stories, and laugh so loudly at each other’s jests, that Geralt almost does not notice the note of melancholy in the men’s eyes.

 _They miss the sea terribly,_ he thinks. It is a way of life entirely foreign to him – Geralt has never particularly cared for boats – but he supposes sailors may well feel more at home at sea than on land.

Yennefer excuses herself at some point, as does Jaskier. Eventually, Geralt finds himself alone with Cerys and Hjalmar, and they listen intently to Geralt’s stories as two women begin to sing in a corner, accompanied by whistles, fiddles, drums and pipes.

Unlike the Islanders, Geralt keeps his stories brief, factual, and to the point. The siblings seem no less impressed for it, however, and shower him with questions. Both seem impressed by his feats, and commend him for living such a heroic life.

“I work for coin,” Geralt says, uncomfortable with their star-blinded gazes of idolatry. “It is no noble thing at all.”

“Oh, come now,” Cerys says, laughing and splashing her tankard over her brother’s shirt. “You are a man of legend, Geralt! Other witchers do your job, and yet have not accumulated such titles to their name.”

“Well,” Geralt says. He is reminded of Eskel, who once remarked that Geralt seemed to feel a need to pursue the most difficult and dangerous monsters possible. “Most of that is because of Jaskier’s songs and stories.”

“Ah yes, your little bard,” Hjalmar rumbles, his words jumbled and slurred together. “Where has he gotten to?”

Cerys titters disapprovingly, and points over to the other side of the hall, where a space has been cleared for people to dance. She twirls her plait around her finger, and smirks.

 _They are both quite drunk,_ Geralt thinks. He has managed to remain sober – the experience at Dorian seems to have driven him away from the overconsumption of alcohol while in Jaskier's presence.

“She’s _such_ a little whore,” Hjalmar says under his breath. Cerys elbows him in the ribs, and he rolls his eyes. “What? You think it too, sister!”

“I wouldn’t _say_ it, though!” Cerys insists. “Besides, I saw that bard making eyes at half the women in the damn citadel. She’s met her match there, I’d say.”

Geralt turns to look despite himself. As expected, Jaskier is dancing with the woman from earlier in the evening. They are entwined in each other, Yustianna’s hair looping around them both as they turn in a strange orange spiral. They are kissing with great enthusiasm every time the steps bring their bodies together, and Geralt feels revulsion build in his chest.

He casts about for something else to look at, and his eyes catch instead on Yennefer, who is dancing with Crach. In contrast to Jaskier and Yustianna, the sorceress and jarl are politely apart, their bodies in contact only by the barest touch of their fingers. Yet Geralt feels something terribly intimate between them, something far beyond whatever is happening with Jaskier and the Islander woman. He watches them for a time, entranced by their graceful movements. Yennefer is so prickly, and Crach so large and overbearing – and despite that, they move together with a serenity that is utterly detached from those around them.

“I’m going to dance,” Cerys says suddenly, and she bounds up to find a partner. Geralt is glad she does not ask him; perhaps she fears Yennefer’s wrath as much as men fear his.

“She wants to be Queen, you know,” Hjalmar says quietly, when she is out of earshot. “My little sister never found a wall she could not climb over. I wonder if she shall surmount this one, too.”

“In most courts, it is considered unwise to speak of the King’s death,” Geralt says cautiously. Hjalmar grins at him sloppily, and shrugs.

“Ah, your Continental courts are full of useless airs and graces. In Ard Skellig, we say what we think, and do as we mean to. And I mean to be King, just so. It will be a fierce contest, when he dies, but I am sure the worthiest will emerge victorious.”

He downs the tankard of ale, and gestures towards the others. “Go, Witcher. You should join the revelries, as your friends have.”

“You aren’t dancing,” Geralt points out.

Hjalmar smiles sadly, his eyes gazing across the room towards his sister. Cerys seems to have found another woman to dance with, a young woman with flaxen hair and a freckled face. They laugh and dance around each other joyously, their plaits whipping other dancers in their path.

“I suppose I am still mourning my first love,” the man says, and Geralt stares at him. He had heard Crach once tell of Hjalmar and Ciri’s childhood love, a betrothal promised between two young friends with kindred spirits that yearned for adventure. He had no idea that Hjalmar had taken it so seriously; that his words as a boy might still hold weight years after Ciri had left Skellige.

Geralt knows he should offer some reassurance, some friendly sympathy to the man. But he cannot – not when it’s _Ciri._ He himself has not reckoned with the gaping hole in his heart, has no way of navigating the treacherous waves that threaten to drown him when he thinks she may be dead. He cannot meet the grief in Hjalmar’s voice – cannot acknowledge the loss as he can.

His eyes fall upon Yennefer and Crach again. He tries to imagine the two of them as young lovers, tries to imagine Hjalmar as a slighter man with a clean-shaven face. They are holding each other in a half-embrace, swaying to the music. He recognises with some surprise the same sadness in their gazes that Hjalmar holds in his.

The drums, pipes and whistles have ceased playing; the two women singing are accompanied only by the fiddle. Their song is melancholy, the words in a soft language Geralt does not know. The dancers have slowed, shifted from merry prancing into a sombre waltz, and Geralt sees tears upon the faces of some of the older men and women.

“What is this song about?” he asks, unable to look away from the families and lovers embracing each other in open affection.

Hjalmar’s reply, when it comes, is spoken barely above a whisper. It is a strange contrast to the loud, rancorous voice he usually employed.

“There is a time for sadness and loss, and we feel it approaching. Gather your loved ones around you. Now is the time for laughter, and dance, so that if we die, we shall know at least that we lived well.”

Geralt finally looks at him, and is surprised to see that even the great, bear-like warrior of Clan an Craite has tears running down his cheeks.

* * *

Yennefer joins him in bed just before dawn, and Geralt holds her tightly for a while.

“Been drinking?” she teases, and pats him affectionately on the shoulder. “You really should hold back at these feasts, you know. Last night I feared you might pick a fight with that brute who raised his voice at Jaskier. It would be just like you to knock his teeth out, and leave me to try and sort out the politics of it all.”

“Mm,” Geralt murmurs, burrowing into her hair. “Not drunk. Just thinking.”

Yennefer seems perplexed, and searches for a new explanation. “I didn’t mean to make you jealous, with Crach. I mean, sometimes I do, but tonight–”

“I know,” Geralt says, stroking her back. “I know, Yen.”

They lie in silence for a while, curled up in each other. Geralt finds he is oddly grateful for the Blight – it has brought them together, given them something to do that doesn’t end in bitter fighting.

Just as he thinks it, he sees Yennefer look up at him with a slight clench in her jaw, and steel in her eyes. He knows that look – it’s the look she has when something has not gone her way.

“What?” he says, his hand stilling upon her back. He feels the same nervousness he felt for months with Jaskier, the fear that Yennefer might suddenly want to cast him aside.

“It’s the Lodge,” Yennefer begins. She closes her eyes, and tries to compose herself. “I have just finished speaking with them – it’s why I took so long to come to bed.”

There is another silence, one Geralt dares not break.

“I have been told,” Yennefer says eventually, with the cold, detached fury that comes of her being ‘told’ anything, “that after we look into the weather anomalies in Skellige, I am to no longer act on my own. We are convening – they have decided it is unwise for us to continue as individual agents. Casting spells together presents the best chance of success.”

“Unwise?” Geralt echoes, confused. “Is your magic running out so quickly?”

Yennefer’s jaw tremors. She gets up from the bed, leaving the rumpled brown sheets next to Geralt empty. She crosses the room to the window, her bare feet treading silently across the stone floor.

 _She must be freezing,_ Geralt thinks, watching her naked body glow in the moonlight. She looks out at the stars, and her hair is illuminated by the night sky behind her.

“In less than a week, I will not even be able to safely summon portals anymore,” she says, and Geralt hears the anger and grief in her voice. “Portals are simple magic – and I am one of the most powerful sorceresses left.”

“We’ll find a cure,” Geralt promises again, and he hears how empty his words sound even as they leave his lips.

Yennefer looks back at him, and her eyes are filled with despair. “There’s more, Geralt. Keira Metz was in Velen, looking for a cure for the Blight. She was the best of us at alchemy; she stood the best chance of formulating some sort of cure for Catriona, and for whatever it is that ails us.”

Geralt remembers Keira Metz, the beautiful sorceress who had once advised King Foltest. He had met her at a banquet, a fine feast not unlike the one they had just attended. 

“And?”

Yennefer shakes her head. Geralt feels trepidation build in his stomach, the same heavy ocean of despair that threatens to overwhelm him when he thinks of Ciri.

“The witch hunters got her,” Yennefer whispers. “She’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Geralt fucking hates portals](https://yennefur.tumblr.com/post/161584663528/geralt-doesnt-like-portals). (I took liberties with how many people Yen can transport, because I'm quite sure the game only includes a limit for Gameplay Reasons - after all, she has no trouble in the Netflix show.)
> 
> Many of the characters and scenes in this chapter are based on the quest “The King is Dead – Long Live the King” in _The Witcher 3_.
> 
> ‘Muire d’yaeblen’ is the name the Islanders have for drowners.
> 
> Just as a note - I'm back to university this week, and have recently picked up some contract work, so updates may be more erratic than before. Don't worry about the fic being left incomplete, though - most of it has been written, and I fully intend to finish it as soon as I can.


	9. Blathe - Part Two

Breakfast the next morning is a quiet affair. The enormous hall is almost empty, the Islanders presumably suffering severe hangovers after the previous night’s festivities. Relics from the Midsummer feast lie scattered around the hall – an overturned tankard here, a smashed vase there. For the most part, however, the servants seem to have cleaned up the chaos that came of a Skelligan holiday.

They had agreed to the plan of finding Asmund as soon as possible, and yet both Jaskier and Yennefer have not left their respective rooms. Jaskier, Geralt assumes, is lying in bed unconscious. Historically the bard had dealt poorly with post-feast hangovers; Geralt has vivid memories of him moaning and begging for water, rolling around their shared tavern beds well into midday. Yennefer, on the other hand, had sealed herself off in an antechamber early in the morning to confer again with the other sorceresses. He picks at his breakfast meal – a single strip of dried meat, cheese, two slices of flatbread, and an apple – and wonders what terrible news the Lodge will give her this time.

The benefit of an empty hall is that Geralt has his choice of seating, and so he has placed himself at a table by a window. The last few times he had stood in this hall he had visited at night, and had not had time or daylight with which to observe the view. Now, however, he can see all the way down to the harbour if he peers through the clear spaces in the glass panes. It is a pretty sight, although the harbour is strangely still without the bustle of ships moving to and from the port. He imagines the view would be rather magnificent if the weather were not so murky and the city so lifeless.

The great oak door to the royal dining hall bangs open, and Yennefer storms across the hall to Geralt with fury writ large upon her face. She slams herself down at Geralt’s table, scowling fiercely.

“Do you know where Philippa has decided her forces are to convene? Not even to Montecalvo – we are all convening in _Ban Ard._ Imagine choosing the home territory of the extinct _Brotherhood_ as a base of operations! And to think, she once swore to never be like them – hah!”

“Her forces?” Geralt asks cautiously. Yennefer has never been forthcoming with the plans of the Lodge, and Geralt has learned over the years not to pry into their affairs. But ‘forces’ was a new word, one that implied armies – one that implied a war.

Yennefer pauses mid-rant, and looks at Geralt tiredly. She hesitates for a moment, glancing furtively around them, and then lowers her voice.

“I shouldn’t be saying anything, but – they’re sending out treaties to _all_ mages – mages from far and wide. Sorcerers who have been cast out, those who have been imprisoned for terrible crimes, even those whose powers are fledgling, at best – all of them have been invited to Ban Ard Academy to help with the crisis.” Yennefer chuckles darkly. “Think of it! Philippa, extending her friendship to the rabble. The end of times, indeed.”

Geralt is taken aback. The members of the Lodge had always valued their monopoly on power and prestige, and to know they were offering sanctuary to mages they had always looked down upon was – well, Yennefer had the truth of it. A sign of true desperation.

“You’ll be lucky if the castle is still standing by the time we get there,” Geralt jokes. Yennefer raises a single eyebrow at him, utterly unamused.

“We’ll be lucky if any mages are still alive,” she corrects, and that sobers Geralt quickly enough.

He tilts his head out towards the window, looking down at the harbour below the citadel. “Then let’s find this ‘Asmund’, and sail to the south. The source of the magic shouldn’t be too far away – we can deal with whatever is causing it, and be in Ban Ard before nightfall."

Yennefer looks at him briefly, and then her lips twitch in a particular way that Geralt has learned to take as begrudging assent. She steals Geralt’s apple from his plate, and bites into it with a good deal of relish.

Neither of them mentions the note of strained concern in Geralt’s voice, or the ease with which he accepts their new destination. They have spent weeks ignoring the way Yennefer no longer casts basic spells to heat Geralt’s bathwater, the way she shakes with tears sometimes in bed when she thinks Geralt is asleep, the way their lovemaking has grown even more passionate and frantic. They do not talk of it, in the same way they do not talk of Ciri’s disappearance.

Still, even if he does not discuss it with Yennefer – Geralt wonders where Ciri is, if she is alive, if her blood has left her open to the disease. So far, he has gone unscathed, despite the magical influence that had mutated him into a witcher. Yennefer believes the Blight’s curse only affects mages, and has infected them through their unique heredities. “Mages are born,” she said once, when he had asked, “Witchers are made.” Yet Geralt does not know if that is true, or whether it had merely been wishful thinking. Since Yennefer had joined them he has not used his Signs at all, and he is hesitant now to try. He does not want to reach for his rudimentary magic and find it gone. He does not want to find himself open to the same threat of impending mortality that faces Yennefer.

* * *

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier is not in his rooms, nor anywhere they can find in the citadel. Instead they find the bard at last in a small, grungy shop in the harbour. Geralt notices that items within the premises have been arranged so haphazardly that poisonous herbs have been mixed in with the vegetables, crammed together on overstuffed shelves. Several milk pails are strewn across the floor to catch water from the leaking roof. Yennefer sniffs in disdain as she enters, and draws her fur coat over her chest – a gesture that Geralt has noticed become more and more common as her magic wanes. The sorceress always looks out of place in the drab and dreary east, but especially so in this run-down, claustrophobic, piss-smelling place.

Jaskier, on the other hand, looks remarkably unremarkable. Gone are the flamboyant vests and tight-fitting pants; gone are the feathered caps and outrageously bright coloured silks. He has adopted travelling clothes of grey and brown tones, far more reserved and practical than his usual fare. Geralt knows that the change indicates something shifting within the bard, something he is not sure that he likes at all – but his friend seems cheerful enough this morning, bright and alert, and not at all the hungover mess that Geralt had imagined he would be.

“Three – yes, _three,_ and no less,” Jaskier is saying to a rather annoyed looking shopkeeper. “Oh, hello, you two. I was just trying to buy some provisions for our journey.” He turns back to the shopkeeper and says with some pride, “and if you have a problem with that, you can speak to my lovely friends behind me.”

The shopkeeper glances at both of them, mumbles something and then pushes a large wrapped package across the counter to Jaskier. The bard beams, and deposits a collection of coins in the shopkeeper’s hands.

“Thank goodness you arrived,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “You have no idea how much easier it is to bargain when you have a hulking witcher and a beautiful sorceress in view.”

Geralt hums in reply, worrying the scene over in his head. He recalls their conversation the previous night, and suddenly understands why Jaskier had been so helpful the past few months.

 _He thought he wasn’t useful to us,_ Geralt thinks, _and so he tries to be as useful as possible._

But Geralt had told him that wasn’t the case. He thought he had made it clear that his company _was_ desired, by Geralt at least. Yet Jaskier is still here, early in the morning, among the smell of decaying fish and rotting wood. Jaskier is still believes he needs to be as useful to their endeavour as possible.

Perhaps – perhaps Geralt has it wrong. Perhaps it is just another way Jaskier has evolved, aged suddenly overnight, from a child-like, careless wretch into a responsible adult. Of course, Jaskier is now well over forty – Geralt forgets that sometimes. He supposes he always assumed Jaskier would remain the same, unchanging, when nothing could be further from the truth.

 _Humans,_ Geralt thinks, and he has never been so painfully aware of the gulf between them.

“So, where are we headed exactly?” Jaskier asks jauntily.

Yennefer stares out towards the grey horizon. “South. I’ll be able to pinpoint the energy when we get closer, but that’s as much information as we know at the moment.”

“It’s calm today, isn’t it?” Jaskier says, following Yennefer’s gaze. “I cannot tell whether I am relieved, or dreading some greater reprisal lurking in the shadows. Like the way the tide goes far out to sea before a huge wave descends upon the shore.”

They walk towards the docks and then out along an extended wooden pier. The largest building in the harbour is the shipyard, a large, imposing structure filled with skeletal ship hulls and cast-off planks of wood from ruined vessels. Most of the men seemed to have gathered under its roof for temporary respite from the blistering wind and cool ocean spray.

“What, ho!” Jaskier calls out, waving enthusiastically at the sailors idling purposelessly around the shipyard. They peer at him with suspicion, many of them chewing rhythmically on blackened roots that stain their teeth a terrible blue. “We’re looking for a man called Asmund. Anyone here heard of him?”

“Aye, we know Asmund,” a sailor says, grimacing at them. “What’s yer business with him? If you have a quarrel with that man, you will have to air it here first.”

“No quarrel,” Geralt says hastily. “Just want to ask a favour.”

Another sailor jumps down from the wooden poles he had been sitting atop, and saunters towards them. Geralt notices he is wearing the yellow and blue plaid of Clan Heymaey, the same clan that Otrygg belonged to.

“I heard you’re looking to sail,” he says, leering at them. “Want to take that witch out on the water, and fight the Goddess herself.”

“Well,” Jaskier replies cockily, glancing momentarily at Yennefer, “You know, it’s very auspicious to sail with such a lovely Continental lass on one’s ship. Really, sailors should be paying for the privilege.”

The Skelligan men exchange a look of amusement while Yennefer glares at the back of Jaskier’s head. _If looks could kill,_ Geralt thinks.

“Havin’ a woman on a ship’s bad luck,” one of the sailors says in a deep, rolling voice. “You’d be sending that vessel to a certain doom.”

“Oh well done, Jaskier,” Yennefer mutters under her breath.

“Look, we didn’t come here to debate superstition,” Geralt says loudly. “We want to find Asmund – our request is for him, and him alone. You should all know that we are honoured guests of Clan an Craite – does this allay your fears that we possess ill intent?”

The sailors look at each other and seem to confer wordlessly with squinted eyes and furrowed brows. Finally, an old, bearded sailor comes forward – a well-muscled man, despite his wrinkled skin and ash-white hair.

“You’ll find Asmund at the cove past the three sisters,” he croaks, pointing along the northern cliffs. “Look for the rock-maidens – there, you see them. Follow the trail around that bluff, and you will find the captain and his crew docked on a beach beyond. They keep to themselves, but they are well-liked here – know that if you wrong them, you will have all of Ard Skellig to reckon with.”

“As I said, we have no quarrel,” Geralt replies. He nods to Jaskier and Yennefer, and they walk in the direction of the trail the old man indicated. He feels the sailors’ eyes upon their backs all the way to the cliffs, and beside him he sees Jaskier shudder.

“Creepy fuckers,” the bard says, when they are well out of earshot. “They reminded me of sheep – you ever gone past a field and had them all stare at you, chewing on grass, not a single one moving? Just like that.”

“I didn’t know you were afraid of sheep, bard,” Yennefer remarks snarkily. “The list of things you are afraid of has grown too long for me to keep track.”

“Oh, _ha_ , _ha_.”

“Whole life spent rigging a ship, and now they’re not allowed to sail,” Geralt calls out to the other two, raising his voice over the sound of the wind, the waves, and their boots crunching upon the pebbled shore. “I imagine they simply do not know their purpose without a ship under their hands.”

“Much like a bard without an instrument to play,” he hears Yennefer murmur. Jaskier is trailing behind them, and so he doesn’t see whether or not the bard heard her remark.

As the stony path curves around the cliffside, they see a large ship come into view, with a make-shift camp upon the beach next to it. Men are strewn across the shore like so many pieces of driftwood, lazing about in makeshift hammocks and primitive tents. They perk up as they see the three of them approaching, and Geralt sees a couple of heads pop up over the ship’s deck. Their eyes watch cautiously as they near the encampment, as wary as the sailors in the shipyard.

One man approaches them. He is smaller and leaner than the other men, but seems somehow all the more dangerous for it. Something in his narrow features reminds Geralt of a rat. He has a pale complexion that sharply contrasts with the tan that other men have from months at sea. On the whole, he is wholly out of place on this beach, and Geralt is immediately intrigued by him.

“What is your business with us?” he says in an authoritative voice.

Geralt has met royalty with less presence.

“We’re here to see Asmund,” Geralt says carefully. “We’re friends of Clan an Craite, and they suggested he might be able to help us.”

The man’s eyes flicker from Geralt to Yennefer, and then finally to Jaskier. He has small eyes to match his small frame, and they seem to squint with calculation. Finally, he nods in approval.

“I am Eirik, the quartermaster of the _Pride of Eoin_ ,” he says. “Our captain is inside the ship. Come, follow me – I will lead you to him.”

Now that they have the approval of the quartermaster, Geralt instantly feels the scrutiny of the men around them relax. Some of the men even laugh and whistle as they pass, chatting animatedly with each other, and some take to wrestling with each other in the sand.

 _Ah,_ Geralt thinks. _So, they were aware of us far before we were aware of them, but concealed that fact from us. Clever._

Eirik takes them out to the warship in a small rowboat, which he propels out to the towering galley. It is larger than most of the Skelligan crafts Geralt has seen, and looks very different to Islander or even Nordling design. Ofieri, he guesses. The closes thing he has seen to its like is the _Oxenfurt-Tretogor_ , but this ship’s draft is much deeper, and its hull more intricately decorated. The sea has worn away much of the exterior paint, but at the top of the hull there remains a swirling gold pattern of chains. At the bow of the ship, a carved man painted in gold stands watch, holding a spear out in attack. The figurehead is alarmingly life-like, and Geralt wonders briefly if it is not a real man who has been cursed into stasis.

“ _Pride of Eoin,_ ” Yennefer says, as their boat crosses the water. “That’s an Islander ship name, and yet that ship does not look like it came from anywhere around here.”

“Indeed,” Eirik affirms, his slim arms moving back and forth as he rows. “It’s a foreign ship. Captain Asmund appeared one day on Ard Skellig, out of nowhere, and started asking for a crew. Told the Islanders he had a ship, and he would pay handsomely for any man that would sail with him. Said his ship was a vessel faster and more dangerous than any here, and would make easy work of any boat we chose to plunder.”

“So a strange man appeared with a ship,” Geralt says, “but – what of the crew that must have helped sail it?”

Eirik’s face clouds over. “Nobody knows. ‘Course, there are rumours. Some say he murdered them. Some say he’s a god, who can drive a ship on his own. But the rumours strike fear into the heart of his enemies, so I am loath to discourage them. The captain has been nothing but good to us – even if he murdered a thousand men, he would have my loyalty, even to the edge of the world.”

“Quite the man he must be, your Captain,” Jaskier remarks.

The sailors onboard nod to Eirik as they lower a rope ladder for the four of them to climb up. There are far more men on deck than Geralt would have expected from the heads he spotted from the shore. Among the men, Geralt is able to spot Asmund immediately. The other sailors gravitate around him, flighty birds around a solid oak tree. The captain of the _Pride of Eoin_ is, in contrast to his quartermaster, a tall, broad, and dark-skinned man. He wears a coat of crimson red, the colour of fresh blood. At present he is turned out towards the sea, his hands clasped behind his back. His brown hair is shot through with silver, and Geralt imagines he must have at least half a century on him.

“Captain,” Eirik says, and the man turns. Jaskier huffs a little in surprise, and Geralt can understand his reaction – the captain is shockingly handsome for his age, with an easy smile that feels instantly welcoming. He is clean-shaven, too, a strange look amongst the bearded Skelligan sailors.

“I see I have the pleasure of having the legendary White Wolf aboard my ship,” the man says, in a deep voice. “And the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg, if I am not mistaken. The third among your number I am afraid I do not know, however.”

“Er,” Jaskier says, sounding as stunned as an Archespore’s prey. “Uh. I’m Jaskier, a bard. I, uh,” he says, continuing to stammer, “Er. Follow him around, I guess,” he finishes lamely, waving a hand at Geralt.

The captain’s smile grows even warmer. Geralt suddenly understands how the Islanders have become so taken with him.

“Ah, Jaskier! Of course, I should have surmised – we have heard many of your songs, even in the furthest southern ports. My deepest apologies – it is an honour to have your acquaintance.”

“Er,” Jaskier says again, and Geralt can see a blush staining his cheeks. “No. I mean. It’s fine. It’s good to meet you too. It’s a nice ship.”

The captain turns back to Geralt and Yennefer, and the witcher can notices Jaskier miserably mouthing his own words back at himself as soon as Asmund’s attention is elsewhere.

“So, a witcher, a bard, and a sorceress. What brings you to the _Pride_? I confess that no monsters trouble us here, and one assumes your magic could take you anywhere you chose. So, not here for monsters, or for passage – what does that leave, I wonder?”

He studies Geralt carefully, and the witcher sees the glimmer of great intelligence in his dark eyes.

“Actually, we do need passage,” Yennefer says. “Cerys an Craite told us that all the other ships in Skellige are forbidden from sailing while the storms rage in the ocean. But you, and your ship, are not of Skellige – and so you are not bound by the King’s word. Is this so?”

Asmund’s scrutiny turns on Yennefer now, surveying the sorceress with a slight tilt of his head.

“I see,” he says slowly. “Yes, you are correct – technically. However, sailing against the King’s wishes would still be ill-mannered. And while I may not be an Islander, most of my men are – and they are still loyal to Bran’s will. This is not even taking into account the storms, which have decimated many ships and might well kill us all.”

Despite his words, he is still smiling. It is almost unnatural, how charming the man is. Geralt is disquieted by it, long years of hunting ringing alarm bells in his head. _I do not know if he is human,_ Geralt thinks, _but more importantly, I do not know if he is a threat._

“So, tell me – what do you offer in exchange for this great risk? What amount of gold is worth risking our lives?”

“No amount of gold,” Yennefer replies. “Of course, we shall offer some nonetheless – the newly reformed Lodge of Sorceresses has ample coffers. But what you will find in reward is an end to the magical storms which have crippled trade, and therefore, I imagine, your livelihoods.”

“You can end the storms?” Asmund says, raising an eyebrow at her in intrigue. “I had heard you were a powerful sorceress, but I did not know such a thing was possible. I had assumed they were part of the larger catastrophe that seems to be affecting the Continent.”

Yennefer nods. “You may be correct. However, the magical energy that has appeared around the eye of the storms is unnatural, so potent that the sorceresses gathered as far away as eastern Kaedwen have noticed its presence. It would seem that there is something more local, more tangible causing the phenomena, and if it is tangible, then it can be eradicated.”

Asmund seems to contemplate this for a moment, and then looks to Eirik. “What say you, quartermaster? Will the men agree to sail for such a purpose?”

“You mean will the men want to sail again, having driven each other crazy with boredom sitting around all day on the shore?” Eirik squints out of one eye at his captain, with the kind of fond exasperation that came of time-worn friendship. “Yes, Captain, I imagine they will.”

Asmund smiles benevolently. “Then tell the men to pack the camp. We are setting sail, and they may well be heroes before the day is done.”

* * *

Asmund’s crew are as cheerful as the Captain is, and they seem to believe the calmer weather is a good omen.

“First reprieve we’ve had in weeks,” one man says, grinning as he pulls on the backstay. “I believe the gods themselves have sent you, so that you might save us from Sedna’s Wrath.”

They bustle around Geralt and Yennefer, humming merrily to each other as they go about their work on the deck. They remind Geralt of worker bees, hovering for a moment around a single flower before zooming off to the next one. Their captain, meanwhile, seems to be engaged in a deep conversation with Jaskier at the raised stern of the ship, far enough away that Geralt cannot make out their discussion over the sound of the wind, the waves, and the men. He sees Asmund laugh more than once at Jaskier’s words, his head tilting upwards and mouth opening wide in delight. Briefly, Geralt sees the flash of metal deep inside his jaw.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, and his eyes are drawn back towards her. Her voice is low, quiet enough that only his enhanced senses could hear her at this distance. “If things go south, it’s important you keep working towards fighting this thing.”

Geralt stares at her for a moment. He adjusts the swords strapped to his back, and says, “Don’t talk about that. It’s not happening.”

The sorceress exhales sharply. “This is about more than me, Geralt. You know how badly this could go.”

“Not happening, Yen.”

“You’re _not listening,_ ” she snaps. “Ignore the uncertain and concentrate on the facts; it is very likely that I will no longer be able to use magic in any meaningful way to help you. And while the Lodge can work from Ban Ard, you are far more useful to everyone fighting a war on its front.”

Thoughts of Yennefer absent from the world suddenly crowd his mind and heart, a blackness that swells and dissipates in turns as Geralt struggles to keep it at bay. “This is not my war. If I – if there is only so much time, Yen, I would choose to spend that time with you.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, and crosses her arms under the folds of her thick coat. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _I’m not losing you too_ ,” Geralt hisses. He notices his body spike with adrenaline, and closes his eyes, consciously slowing his breath and heart rate. “I will go where you go, whether you will it or not.”

When he opens his eyes, Yennefer’s face is undecipherable to him. It could be fury, or grief; it could even be affection. She breaks eye contact with him, putting one gloved hand upon the railing of the ship and staring out towards the passing rocks and wilderness of Ard Skellig.

“This is why witchers shouldn’t love,” Yennefer says, her voice tinged with sadness and finality. “They lose track of what is important.”

It is a low blow, and one that stings with the weight of a decade of rancid arguments. This time, however, they are on a ship, unable to walk away from one another entirely – and surrounded by other people, no less.

“You would throw the world aside for Ciri,” Geralt says quietly. “Why can you not understand that I would do the same for you?”

Yennefer winces at the mention of her name, and her hands tighten on the railing. She doesn’t look at Geralt, or reply to him; she simply continues to stare at the passing islands, her black hair blowing about and tangling in the sea breeze. Some seagulls hover alongside the sails of the ship, crowing obnoxiously into the silence that falls between the two of them.

“Good to see the gulls flying again,” Eirik says, appearing from nowhere. Geralt startles, and turns to the rat-faced man. He had managed to sneak up on a witcher, the wooden deck giving not so much as a creak under his light steps. “They were choking up the caves and forests for weeks.”

“What did you do,” Geralt asks suddenly, waving haphazardly at the sails, “before all of this? You seem ill-suited for this life.”

Eirik seems to snarl, but Geralt realises after a moment that his expression is actually a twisted smile. “You must not have sailed much, Witcher. You do not ask a pirate where they came from; you only ask them where they are going, and how much they are going for.”

“And yet you would sail for glory, and not for coin,” Yennefer says, turning at last from her sentry post. “I heard pirates were a greedy, selfish, savage lot, and yet you are here, sailing into dangers untold, with only the slightest promise you might survive it.”

Eirik laughs, a high and unnerving sound. “You may be magic, witch, but you seem ill-read on the signs of nature. These gulls are our guardian spirits; they guide our way forward. Every other sign has failed us – the tides, the winds, even the skies – all of them are chaotic and unpredictable with these new storms. But the gulls are steady. If they abandoned our sails, I assure you, we would be following them into shelter instead of continuing this path south.”

“Hmm,” Yennefer says, but she sounds appeased.

“Have you ever seen a storm at sea?” the quartermaster asks, his rough, accented voice sputtering on the consonants. “We drive these ships across the ocean, but when it storms – the seas drive us. We are at the mercy of the waves. I have seen what happens when the seas swell, rising up and upturning ships full of men like they are straw dolls. Even for those that can swim, drowning is inevitable. You cannot keep your head above water when the waves rise higher than the mast of even this ship. There is no hope of survival.”

“These storms,” Geralt says. “The recent ones. They are all that bad?”

Eirik’s small, beady eyes are trained on his. Geralt no longer thinks he looks like a rat; instead, he has taken on the appearance of a pale snake, ready to strike. “Oh, _worse_. The most damning thing is how quickly they come and go; a split second, a single wave, and entire armies of men might be lost to the seas. It is like a great pulse, beating out from Skellige and upturning everything in its path, leaving nothing but drowned bodies and shipwrecks in its wake.”

A strong, melodic noise rises above the sounds of the ocean, and Geralt’s eyes dart to the space behind Eirik. He sees a group of the sailors have gathered about the stern, cheering as a stringed instrument is played from somewhere behind them.

 _Jaskier,_ Geralt thinks – but no, his lute was left behind in Kaer Trolde. And this instrument sounds different – the sounds are deeper, longer, and more dissonant.

“Ah,” Eirik says, noticing his distraction. The quartermaster turns, and grins approvingly towards the stern. “It seems our captain has decided to grace us with his tanpura.”

“Tanpura?” Geralt says, unfamiliar with the word. He moves position slightly in order to see beyond the sailors, and immediately spots Asmund strumming an instrument that looks similar to Jaskier’s, but with a wider and longer neck and much smaller base. The music it plays sound nothing like the soft, melodic lute, however – the notes are harsher, and ring out for long after the strings have been plucked. The sound itself is metallic, violent and ethereal at the same time. It is like nothing Geralt has ever heard. He finds himself enraptured, both by the sound and by the sight of Asmund playing the instrument, looking more god-like than human.

“He says he acquired it from a trader in a distant, southern land, and could never bring himself to sell it again,” Eirik says, shaking his head exasperatedly. “So instead, he decided to learn to play it. Of course, one never knows with him where the truth begins or ends, so he may well have had it from childhood, or stolen it from a penniless beggar.”

Eirik’s expression is fond, and Geralt thinks that somehow, unbelievably, this man would follow his captain with profound and unshakeable trust, despite confessing to know nothing true about him.

The song finishes, and Asmund smiles, setting the tanpura aside. Jaskier and the sailors whoop and cheer, and the captain simply smiles and modestly rubs his neck, saying something dismissive to the men. They resume their duties, chattering excitedly amongst themselves as they disassemble.

“He’s not of this world,” Eirik says, with both pride and awe in his voice. Geralt sees that the quartermaster’s eyes are still locked on his captain, and looks briefly to Yennefer. She raises an eyebrow at him, their earlier argument temporarily forgotten.

“I _really_ couldn’t–” he hears Jaskier say loudly, and his attention reverts to the stern. Jaskier seems to be refusing something from Asmund, and Geralt walks across the ship towards them, his curiosity suitably piqued.

“It is like overcoming any fear, my friend,” Asmund is saying. “You have to walk up that gangplank, or you will be stuck on the shore forever.”

“I – well. I suppose it isn’t something I’d be able to play anyway,” Jaskier says. Asmund gifts the bard with one of his beatific smiles, and hands over the tanpura to him.

“Let’s see,” Jaskier says, and plucks some of the strings tentatively. Asmund points to various frets and dials, and murmurs instructions in a voice that sinks under the noise of the wind. Geralt watches them, unease pricking at his stomach for no logical reason.

“Don’t worry,” Eirik says into his ear. Geralt winces, once again startled by the small man encroaching on his space without him noticing. “He’s like that with everyone. It’s why everyone is so loyal. A replacement father, a replacement brother, a replacement lover. He becomes everything we have lost, and everything we fight for.”

Asmund’s hands move over Jaskier’s to show him the correct position to play in, and Geralt feels his heart spike with something dark, and pained. The bard looks more genuinely happy and carefree than he has in quite a while. Finally, Jaskier strums a few chords on the tanpura, and the chaotic, awful noise it makes Asmund laugh uproariously. The other crewmembers look towards the source of the noise, like dogs picking up on the scent of food. They grin to each other, and yell at the two.

“Sing us a song, bard!” yells a tall sailor, his skin blackened with tattoos. “Throw us a shanty to work to!”

“Sing!” the others begin to demand.

“Show us yer tits!” one yells, and the others dissolve into gales of laughter.

“Shut up Volstag!” they chorus. The one called Volstag, a short, stocky man with a mane of red hair not unlike Crach’s, looks completely unchastened. He gives them all some sort of gesture with his hands, and the others snort and snigger.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says, more to Asmund than the sailors. Asmund takes the tanpura back from him, and strums a chord lazily.

“Oh, come now. You are a bard; songs are the life of the sea, the rhythm to which sailors beat their oars, swab their decks and tie their ropes. I am sure you can find a melody in the bird’s cries, a beat within the waves. You are a musician; it is in your soul, as the sea is in mine.”

Jaskier looks utterly bewitched. He begins, slowly, “I do – I do know a few shanties, as it happens. Plenty of sailors, in Novigrad. They make for popular entertainment in the taverns there.”

Asmund rewards him with another smile.

To Geralt’s immense surprise, Jaskier begins to sing. His voice rises above the waves, tentative at first, but then sure and strong.

_“It’s a damn hard life for a sailor’s wife,  
Sitting home with naught but hope  
And we don’t get home ‘til we break our bones  
While pulling on these ropes.  
  
We’ve whored in Poviss, and from Kovir pissed  
All our coin and wine away.  
And we seen Kerack, now we wanting back  
To that old familiar bay._

The men seem to know the song well; they all join in on the chorus, their voices as overbearing and harsh as the salt spray.

“ _Sail back to Old Faroe, my boys,  
Sail back to Kaer Trolde,  
Sail to the Isles, no matter the miles,  
O the tales that shall be told!”_

Jaskier grins, and starts the verse again on his own. His voice is confident now, and he settles into a familiar and easy showmanship. Asmund, meanwhile, has set down the tanpura and is sitting upon a large chest, his arms folded across his chest.

 _He looks satisfied,_ Geralt thinks, and the dark feeling prickles again in his chest. The captain managed to do what Geralt could not, and Jaskier is singing with joy once more. _I should be happy, too,_ Geralt thinks. _I should be relieved._ Yet he cannot shake the murmur of discontent in his heart, one that Geralt is choosing determinedly to ignore. There is something far uglier underneath the surface of that abscess, and if he worries at it, he knows it will not like what he finds.

“ _There’s my wench at home, waiting all alone  
For her man to anchor down.  
If I’m gone too long, she might get it wrong  
And start to sleep around._

_Seen the northern ice, and the southern lice,  
In the beds of black-haired foes.  
Seen the eastern shores and the eastern whores,  
And the fish maids with no toes._

_Sail back to Old Faroe, my boys,  
Sail back to Kaer Trolde,  
Sail to the Isles, no matter the miles,  
O the tales that shall be told!_

_And my lady fair might have greying hair  
By the time our ship is home.  
But I’ll love her still, we’ll wed on a hill  
Overlooking wee Boxholm._

_And I’ll sail no more, I’ll hang up my oars  
I’ll be happy with my love.  
A house on the coast, which I’ll proudly boast  
Equals Valhalla above._

_Sail back to Old Faroe, my boys,  
Sail back to Kaer Trolde,  
Sail to the Isles, no matter the miles,  
O the tales that shall be told!”_

* * *

Despite their fears, Eirik’s predictions about the clear skies turn out to be true, and they somehow round the southern cape of Ard Skellig without encountering any storms. Jaskier has continued to sing with the men for some hours now, and the sailors seem to have grown as adoring of the bard as they are of their captain. Yennefer, meanwhile, has taken Asmund and Eirik aside at the bow. She gestures to them and to the islands, engaged in some intense conversation with them both.

Eventually, Yennefer interrupts Jaskier’s latest shanty with a loud shout.

“Stop! Stop – there. That cave.” She points at an opening in the bluffs, barely visible behind the moss and leaves around it. Geralt sees Asmund's men exchange a look of concern. The others crowd around her at the bow, squinting at the area she has indicated.

“Yer saying Sedna’s Wrath is coming from here?” Volstag says uncertainly. “Yer think she might be in that cave?” The sailors once again exchange a look of alarm.

“Almost certainly not,” Yennefer says dismissively. “But whatever it is certainly possesses great power. Anchor your ship here and stay aboard – I don’t believe that we will be too long within.”

Eirik raises his eyebrows. “You have no idea what that is, do you? That’s the Cave of Dreams. Men enter there and go mad. You cannot navigate it without facing your greatest fears, the moments in your life, real or imagined, that haunt your soul.”

Yennefer snorts. “I’m sure we will survive. It sounds like a curse to me to keep men out – one I am sure I can deal with. And if there is such a spell in place, it only makes me more curious as to what lies within.”

Volstag glares at her. “Yer ‘ave no clue as to what yer dealing with, lassie. Be it on yer ‘ead, then.”

“I would ask you to wait here,” Geralt says to Asmund, ignoring the short-bearded sailor. “We’ll give you half of the promised coin now. If we don’t return by sunset, you can assume we have perished and can sail back to Skellige at your leisure.”

Jaskier whimpers at Geralt’s cavalier attitude to their deaths, but Geralt ignores him and stares Asmund down until the captain shakes his hand. “Deal,” the captain says, holding the witcher’s gaze with equal intensity. “But do not expect my sailors to go in there to rescue you. The Islanders have lost too many men to that cave.”

“We understand,” Geralt says, and Yennefer hands a small purse over to Asmund that Geralt knows to be filled with valuable jewels. He goes to the side of the ship closest to the island, and watches while the men lower a rowboat down the side of the ship, Eirik already inside it. Eventually, Yennefer joins him, and she briefly touches the side of her glove to Geralt's own.  
  
Jaskier, however, lingers a moment longer at the bow, looking at the captain hesitantly.

“Thank you,” he says to Asmund quietly. Somehow, Geralt does not think he is conveying gratitude for their passage.

The captain doesn’t respond, simply clasping Jaskier’s shoulder in a friendly parting gesture. Jaskier turns to follow Geralt and Yennefer, and the three of them clamber down the rope ladder to the rowboat waiting at the bottom.

Eirik rows them to the shore silently, seemingly lost in pensive thought. He nods as they reach shallow water, and they disembark over the side of the dinghy, their boots splashing in the green sea water as they land.

“Watch out for yourselves,” Jaskier says, smiling slightly. “We wouldn’t want to come back to a wreck. Don’t stay too long if we’re gone, either; wouldn’t want you to lose your crew over a couple of idiot heroes who bite off more than they can chew.”

“The bluffs should shelter us from passing storms,” Eirik says, staring up at the cliffs. “We will wait for you for as long as we are able.” The gruff man gives Jaskier one of his half-grimaces, half-smiles.

“Thank you for all you have done,” Yennefer says curtly.

“May the eye of Loki watch over you always,” the quartermaster says by way of reply, nodding in farewell.

The three of them wade up the shoreline to the cave, their boots soaking full of seawater and catching strands of seaweed on their calves as they go. Ordinarily, Geralt knows, the tide would be far lower – but here the water has risen to the point that the sand has vanished underneath the ocean waves, pine trees sticking out from the flooded ground while grass lay submerged underneath.

“Thank god the cave hasn’t been flooded yet,” Yennefer says as they approach the entrance. “I have no interest in diving for answers, especially not in this outfit.” The bottom of her coat is already trailing in the water, despite her best efforts, and the fur has soaked through with saltwater. 

They stand together at the wide opening for a moment, looking down into the depths of the cave warily. Geralt’s witcher medallion hums, and he sighs and steps forward. The other two follow in silence, their footsteps echoing in the space alongside the sounds of dripping water. The cave is dark enough that Jaskier trips over noisily on a rock, splashing into the water in front of him. Yennefer sighs, and uses a spark of magic to send an orb of light into the air. It sails past Geralt, bobbing in the air in front of him like an eager child and illuminating the path in front of them. Geralt finds himself glad for Yennefer’s magic, despite the cost that even this paltry spell must exact.

The light falls over a pile of nekker corpses, and they all hold their breath while they walk past the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh.

“Something has killed them recently,” Geralt whispers. “Be on your guard.”

The passageway descends further until it comes out into a wide opening, a great cavern with pillars of stone that separate the wide expanse of space. Water drips from stalactites in the ceiling down to puddles of water that have amassed into small lakes. In the centre of the space, a strange white totem glows slightly in the darkness.

“What is that thing?” Jaskier asks with some nervousness. A skeleton is speared through at its base, looking up at the three-headed carving at the top of the totem as though in awe. Geralt looks around the cave, and sees no clear way forward – white painted patterns cover the walls, depicting sea animals. Otherwise, the cavern is empty.

“Looks like we’ll have to find out,” Geralt says. “This has to be the way to get deeper into the cave.”

“Look,” Yennefer says, crouching over the skeleton. “There’s something in its mouth.”

She opens the jaw of the skull, taking out a mossy bottle filled with some sort of potion. She opens it and sniffs, wincing slightly as she does so.

“I think we have to drink this,” Yennefer says, and passes it to Geralt for inspection. He holds it near his nose, closing his eyes for a minute to narrow in on the scent. "I have seen ceremonial spells like this before, wards that block out those who have not consumed a certain substance."

“Hemlock, poppy, nightshade,” Geralt summarises. “Something else in there, not sure what. The potion is a hallucinogenic. Powerful and potent.”

“No wonder people think they ‘face their fears’,” Yennefer snorts. “But there’s some magic in this totem – you sense it too, don’t you Geralt?”

Geralt nods. “Yes. I think you are right - I imagine we have to drink to pass a test of bravery.”

“Is anybody going to ask _my_ opinion?” Jaskier says from behind them, annoyed. Geralt takes a swig of the substance and passes it to Yennefer, who does the same. Jaskier sighs and takes it from her hands, draining the last of the potion as he drinks from it.

Immediately, Geralt feels the rock start sinking under his feet. When he looks down, his feet are holding solid to the rock floor – but then he looks up and the paintings on the wall are moving, shining and dancing around his head.

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier mumbles. “No, please, don’t eat me, nice Master Whale–”

Geralt shudders, and collapses to the ground.

He hears Yennefer hiss in pain before she, too, falls over. He tries to turn to look at Jaskier, to see if his friend is alright, but even as he attempts to move his head, he finds himself immobilised. Yennefer’s light orb flickers out, and they are surrounded by darkness once more.

 _Idiot,_ he thinks at himself savagely, before his mind succumbs to unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this timeline, Philippa and Margarita are successful in unifying the Lodge again after Loc Muinne.
> 
> The ‘Pride of Eoin’ might well have once been named ‘Prydwen’ (a reference to King Arthur and not Fallout 4, which I have not played.)
> 
> The Game Inspiration of the Week is Assassin’s Creed: Rogue/Black Flag. The specific shanty that inspired the song in this chapter is ‘Rollin’ Down to Old Maui’. I believe you can sing the words of this shanty along to the same tune.
> 
> Valhalla is not a part of Skellige’s canon religious lore, but I don’t think it’s much of a stretch since most of it is inherited from Viking mythology.
> 
> The ‘Cave of Dreams’ is based on the location and quest of the same name in Witcher 3, although the details of what happens in that quest have been dramatically changed.


	10. Blathe - Part Three

Geralt groans in pain as he regains consciousness. His head is ringing, the effects of the potion still buzzing in his skull – but his physical strength seems to be slowly returning. He opens his eyes and finds that the cave ceiling is now lit with an ethereal blue glow.

 _Odd,_ Geralt thinks.

He raises one of his hands, and sees white vapour trailing across his fingers, swirling patterns in the air. The sight is mesmerising. Geralt does it a few more times, just to see the fog flow around in such intricate paths. It is a strange substance, slightly too slow-moving for regular mist, and smelling faintly of a spice the witcher cannot name. If his head was not throbbing with pain, he might think he was in a dream.

“Geralt,” he hears Yennefer murmur beside him. “We’re close to the source.”

 _Yes,_ Geralt thinks. He can feel the magic surrounding him, pressing up against his skin and making his medallion thrum with energy. He can hear it, too – a faint hum of sweet music.

 _Wait,_ he thinks. _That’s Jaskier._ With some effort, he turns to face his friend. The bard is staring vacantly at the glowing ceiling, quietly singing a wordless tune.

Geralt tries to shake himself, and gets to his feet. The totem is still there in front of them, but now it glows with the same strange blue light as the rest of the cavern. Yennefer pulls Jaskier to his feet, and the three of them take in the cave around them. Gone is the closed-off grotto – instead, the cavern now extends outwards in multiple directions, each tunnel so far-reaching that Geralt can see nothing but darkness at the end of each path.

“Which way do we go?” Jaskier asks, echoing Geralt’s own thoughts. Yennefer makes a dissatisfied noise.

“The magic is too powerful here, too overwhelming,” she explains. “I can’t pinpoint it.”

“Maybe we should see where that thing is heading,” Geralt says, gesturing to an enormous ghostly blue spectre that is moving slowly above them. He squints against the light, and can make out the shape of a whale, swimming forward. Its movements are slightly too slow and aimless to be that of a living creature. “At the very least, Yen won’t need to provide any light while it’s around.”

Without any better ideas, the three follow the ghost-whale through the endless cavern. Other spectres appear and disappear in the ceiling too – schools of fish, all swimming through the air as though it were water. A shark, darting about from column to column. The lights of the ghosts move about in the air, creating shifting shadows upon the rock surfaces.

“This is… incredible,” Jaskier says, naked awe in his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

They follow the whale further and further into the caves. Geralt is beginning to feel a little as he did in Magpie Forest, as though their surroundings are in control of their path rather than themselves. But the caverns seem naturally formed, despite the air of magic and ghostly spirits that haunt them. Geralt wonders if such caverns are usual below the sea bed; if there are a network of caves burrowed into the ground, unnoticed by the beings that live above. He imagines, for a moment, that they are descending into the kind of Underworld described by the old myths of Zerrikania. A realm in which dragons guard vast mountains of gold, hidden away from the heat of the desert sun. A country that marks the passage into the world of the cursed dead deep beneath the earth.

“Do you know any Zerrikanian legends, Jaskier?” Geralt asks, for want of something to break the reverent silence that has grown between the three of them.

Jaskier coughs, but otherwise does not question the non-sequitur. “Er. Yes, a few. Although I sometimes confuse their myths with the Ofieri and Zangvebarian canon. I believe some of their people have the same ancestry… well, in any case, I think my favourite is the tale of the two princesses.”

Yennefer scoffs. “I hate that story. It is just anti-mage propaganda.”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully and glances sideways at her. “I don’t think so. Even if it is, I’m quite fond of it.”

“What is this story?” Geralt says, frowning. “I have not heard of it before.”

Jaskier smiles softly. His voice echoes in the cavern, bouncing off the stone walls and reverberating with the sound of dripping water.

“Once upon a time, there were two twin daughters born to a king and queen. Yet despite being twins, they were as different as day and night. One was as soft and lovely as a rose, the other as ugly and prickly as a thorn. The fair princess was the pride of her kingdom, and the king did not make secret of her being the chosen heir. The ugly princess, on the other hand, grew resentful, and stayed locked in her room. She stole ancient books from the palace library, and taught herself the ways of dark magic.”

Yennefer huffs, and Geralt sees bitterness in the thinness of her lips, and the downward tilt of her eyebrows. It was the kind of expression that used to precede hours, sometimes days, of Geralt being ignored.

Jaskier continues. “So it was that the years went on, and the fair princess grew into a beloved queen, while the ugly princess seemed to vanish entirely from the world. Nobody thought to look for her. Nobody mourned her loss. One day, the queen was to be married off, and to everyone’s surprise she chose the prince of a neighbouring kingdom to be her husband. They fell deeply in love, and the two kingdoms celebrated their marriage with an enormous festival that lasted three days and three nights. On the final day of the festival, however, a great thunderstorm swept across the land and hid the sun and the stars in the sky.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, looking briefly to Yennefer. However, the sorceress is determinedly staring ahead to the darkness before them, and so the bard continues his tale.

“As you’ve doubtless surmised, the ugly princess had returned. In the years that had passed, she had metamorphosised into an enchanting sorceress, with a beauty to match her sister’s. But her gaze was cold, and her heart was empty. She was beautiful, yes, but no man would ever love a creature like her.”

Geralt is beginning to see why Yennefer dislikes this tale so vehemently. _You could have edited the tale a little for your audience, Jaskier,_ he thinks, although he knows well how immersed his friend became once he had gotten into the rhythm of a favourite song or story.

“‘Queen!’ the witch cried. ‘You have wronged me for many years. When I was alone, when I was scorned, when I was lost, you never once lifted a hand to help. And so I will exact my revenge upon you, so you will be just as forgotten as I was!’ The witch cursed her into a deep sleep, one that she would not awaken from for a hundred years. The people of the kingdoms wept, and lay her in wedding bed. They grieved for their queen for three days and three nights, and then, as is the nature of these things, they moved on. Her husband-to-be was made king, and even he eventually remarried and had many children.”

Geralt’s imagination is filled with images of a distant marble palace, in a city made of rounded mud houses set upon a sandy desert. In his mind’s eye, he sees the shadows of generations running past a locked door, laughing and playing and talking with each other.

“And so a century passed, and the queen lay sleeping in her bed undisturbed. At last she awoke to a crumbling tower, and a ruined palace. Her kingdom had fallen to barbarians, and everyone that had lived there was long dead.”

The shadowy figures suddenly run into the arms of huge, monstrous men. The echoes of laughter turn to screams, and his mind now supplies details sketched from his own memories. Geralt knows all too well the kind of scene that came of a massacre. Bodies that lay unseeing on the ground, eyes left open in a frozen state of terror.

“I never understood,” Geralt says slowly, “why you seem to favour such sad tales.”

“Ah, the story is not over,” Jaskier says, with a wry quirk of his lips. “For you see, there was someone still left alive. The sorceress had endured through the years, kept alive by magic as all sorceresses are. And so the queen sought out her sister, furious for what she had done. She learned the ways of mage-killers, and became one of the fiercest assassins ever known. She acquired a blade that could pierce through any magic, and armour that could defend against any spell. Then, finally, she encountered her sister on a distant island, many miles from their kingdom. An island of beasts that grew taller than any bear, and wider than any dragon. An island of strange and dark plants, that the queen slashed and hacked her way through, until she came to the humble camp where her sister had made a home.

“‘Witch,’ she said, ‘I have come to kill you, for everything you have taken from me!’ And she leapt at the sorceress, slashing her sword towards her. To the sorceress’s surprise, her magic was useless against this new enemy. She was too well-guarded by her magic armour, and her blade cut through every defence. Finally, bleeding from scores of wounds, the sorceress surrendered. ‘I yield,’ she said, ‘I yield. Kill me now, for you have earned that right, sister.’

“And so the sister raised her great blade up towards the sky, but when she swung it down it did not meet its mark. She thrust it into the stone by her sister’s head, and wept. ‘I cannot kill you,’ she cried, ‘for you are the only person I have left.’ And so instead, she offered her gauntleted hand to her sister in peace. ‘Come, sister’, she said. ‘Let me do right by you and be the friend you deserved. Let me take you from this hellish land, back to the country we were born, and let us live the rest of our lives in harmony.”

“And so the sorceress took advantage of her weakness, and killed the queen where she stood,” Yennefer intones ahead of them, sounding bored. “And that is why you can never trust a witch.”

Jaskier exhales exasperatedly, and scratches his beard. “Well, that’s one version, yes. Other versions have the sisters live happily together, and still others do not have an ending at all.”

“Absolute nonsense,” Yennefer mutters. Geralt, meanwhile, cannot get the image of the sleeping queen out of his head. He thinks of Ciri, locked in a room somewhere and unable to leave. He thinks of her escaping, years later, only to find them all dead from this Blight.

 _We won’t let it happen,_ he thinks grimly. _Yen and I will live._

He glances behind him at Jaskier, who is walking alongside Yennefer, bickering with her over the merits and intents of the story.

 _At least Jaskier is safe from the disease,_ he thinks. _Although whether will be spared from the rest of it…_

Jaskier notices his glance and is distracted from his argument.

“What is it?” he says, half-running to catch up to Geralt and walk alongside him instead.

“Nothing,” Geralt grunts. “Just – promise me something.”

Jaskier’s stare is boring a hole into the side of Geralt’s face. The witcher ignores him, and continues to look straight ahead.

“Name it,” Jaskier says slowly, “and I will give you my oath, if I can.”

“Swear to me – swear to me, that you won’t go getting yourself into trouble if I’m not there to save you.”

Silence falls between them for a moment, and Geralt can feel Jaskier’s gaze towards him burning even more intensely.

“I swear it,” the bard says eventually, “as much as I am able – you know how these things go, Geralt. Trouble finds me, not the other way around.”

Geralt huffs with amusement. “Oh, these women just fall into your lap, do they? That djinn cursed you without provocation of any kind? That priestess just impaled herself upon your–”

“Alright, alright,” Jaskier says, chuckling. “Listen, you know what I mean. And I don’t promise not to get involved if you need saving, either.”

“If _I_ need saving?” Geralt questions incredulously. “If _I_ need to be saved _by you_?”

“Oh, don’t act like that. Don’t you remember when–”

Behind them, Yennefer suddenly cries out. The hollowed cavern makes her yelp echo ominously around them. Geralt turns immediately, hand hovering over the swords on his back in preparation to fight something off – but instead, he sees that Yennefer is merely surrounded by fish spirits. No, not fishes – eels. They circle her, faster and faster, and Geralt tries to slash his silver sword at the things. They ignore the slice of the blade, circling her even more rapidly, burning brighter, until they are all blinded by the light emitted by the creatures.

When Geralt can see again, he is surrounded by young girls, each wearing a basic serving dress and staring down at a table in front of them. On each desk is a pebble and a sprig of daisies. The walls of the cave have shifted, shimmering with some strange light. Sometimes Geralt feels he is in the caverns, and at other times it looks as though they are in a circular room many plants spilling out from walls and tables around them.

“Again,” a tall woman commands, and the girls stare long and hard at their desks, holding up the flowers with one hand and staring at the rock with the other.

Geralt notices that Yennefer is behind one of the tables, and her eyes are filled with wide-open astonishment. “No,” she whispers.

The stern woman stares down at Yennefer, missing her eyes, as though seeing a girl shorter than the sorceress. “Look at you,” she sneers. “A crippled hunchback. No family, nobody to love you. Nobody who ever will.”

She plucks the flowers from Yennefer’s hands, and rips their heads from their stems. Yennefer cries out, as though in pain.

“You think anyone could love you? Knowing what you really are? You think you could be anything without _this_?” the woman snarls, and throws the flowerheads in Yennefer’s face. Yennefer’s eyes flash with magic, and the petals wither into dust before they can touch her.

“The only thing you are good for is your power,” the woman snaps. “You would do well to remember that. Use your anger, use your rage, but never forget yourself by chasing fantasies.”

“Yes, Rectoress,” Yennefer says, her eyes devoid of their usual life. Geralt realises suddenly that the woman before him is Tissaia de Vries, and this scene must be an illusion based on Yennefer’s own memories.

Jaskier storms in front of Geralt, and stabs the rectoress’ spirit through with his dagger. “Shut up!” he yells. “That’s absolute hogwash!”

Yennefer blinks, thrown out of her reverie, and looks up at Jaskier. De Vries’ spirit dissolves, and the girls’ tables and bodies shrink into eel spirits again. The vision of the room clears, and they are once again surrounded only by rock and dripping water.

“Don’t listen to whatever that ghost says,” Jaskier says, grasping Yennefer firmly by the arms. “You think any of that is true? Geralt loves you, and Ciri loves you, and lots of other people I’m sure – and – you have friends. So, that lady-ghost can – can shove it.”

Yennefer stares at him a moment longer, and then laughs. “Thank you, Jaskier,” she says wryly, “For that rousing statement. Truly the work of a great poet.”

Jaskier steps back from her, embarrassed, and Geralt feels himself smiling slightly.

Yennefer stares at the eel-spirits flailing pathetically on the ground. “My sisters,” she says, her voice full of contempt. Geralt is not sure whom, exactly, the contempt is directed at. The downward slant of her mouth seems more sad than scornful. She looks up, and Geralt follows her gaze. The whale has drifted further away from them, far enough that the light from it has faded and their surrounds are growing darker.

“We’d better keep up with it,” Jaskier says hesitantly, and the three of them half-run towards it, boots splashing loudly in the deep puddles scattered across the cavern floor. It does not take them long arrive back under the whale’s belly; it is still moving slowly, despite the distance it managed to accrue while they were standing still.

“Whatever magic this is,” Yennefer says in a low voice, “It is powerful, and ancient. Whatever just happened, I felt as though I were back there – in Aretuza. I forgot the both of you existed, or that we were here, or anything else at all.”

“Good thing Jaskier was here to save the day, then,” Geralt says, raising his eyebrow at the bard walking in front of them. Jaskier’s ears go red, but he doesn’t turn around to acknowledge Geralt’s statement.

They walk on for over half an hour, through hundreds of similar wide openings, following the whale’s slowly pulsing tail. Geralt notices that the rock columns are changing slightly – at first, it is just a small sparkle upon their surface. Then, as they go deeper, the speckles of light grow larger and larger, until Geralt realises there are fist-sized crystals embedded within the stone.

Jaskier whistles. “I imagine you’d be able to make a fortune from those. I wonder why nobody has ever mined them?”

“Perhaps nobody ever made it this far,” Yennefer replies darkly.

“Oh, don’t say that,” Jaskier says, shuddering. “I mean, it’s not as though we’ve seen any skeletons in here.”

“Exactly,” Yennefer says mysteriously.

Ignoring her, Geralt walks over to one of the rock columns, stepping up upon the boulders surrounding it. He rubs his gloved thumb over one of the crystals. Its edges are sharp, and its surfaces as flat as a cut gemstone. Yet despite that, it bulges out from the rockface like a parasitic leech.

 _This is no ordinary crystal,_ Geralt thinks, examining the seam between the crystal and the stone it is embedded within. _This is a recent growth._

His hand is just leaving the rockface when it skips over a slight groove, one that leads him to peer closely at the rock rather than the crystal.

“Yennefer,” he says, squinting at it. “Is this…”

She comes up behind him and peers down towards where his fingers rest upon the rockface, before running her eyes up and down the column speculatively.

“Yes, you’re right,” she says. “Fascinating. I imagine it was written by merpeople, or nereids… eroded away by the water that once ran through this place, long ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Jaskier interrupts, a note of annoyance in his voice.

Yennefer doesn’t bother to turn around, still fascinated by the writing on the column. “Some of these pillars have a sort of script etched into their surface,” she says, stroking the place next to Geralt’s hand with her own glove. “I cannot make out their language, but I would imagine by the faintness of the impressions that this writing is old, possibly older than the dwarves.”

“Older than the dwarves?” Jaskier echoes. “So there was a settlement here, once, of underwater peoples, thousands of year ago?”

“Perhaps,” Yennefer says, looking around at the rest of the cavern. “Since the Aen Seidhe arrived, the nereids and their ilk have sung with a variation of Elder Speech. This–” she says, tilting her head back to the barely legible script upon the wall, “–this script bears no resemblance to it. It seems more pictorial than alphabetic. Moreover, I sense a kind of magic from it, but it is no magic that I am familiar with. It seems far older, far more subtle.”

“Magic of the nymphs, rather than the kind taught by the Aen Seidhe,” Geralt agrees.

“Er,” Jaskier stutters. “But – nymphs are well known for kidnapping children and – well – _men_ , are they not? Are they going to try to… harvest me?” He glances down to his crotch and then back to Yennefer in alarm.

The sorceress rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jaskier. Even if there were any nereids here, I would not let them touch you.”

The protectiveness in her voice is unexpected, even mottled by her usual dismissive tone. Jaskier seems no less surprised to hear it than Geralt, and the bard blinks rapidly as he processes her statement.

“Uh… you wouldn’t?”

Yennefer clicks her tongue. “Well, if you’re going to be this obtuse and irritating, I’ll reconsider. But I told you once, I owe you an immeasurable debt – that hasn’t changed, bard.”

 _What debt?_ Geralt thinks, but Yennefer continues before he can ask.

“In any case, there won’t be a need for any such rescue. I doubt there _are_ any living beings left in this place – the traces of magic are too faint. The spells here were cast centuries ago, if not millennia.” She pauses, and rubs her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger.

“However,” she says slowly, “I will admit, you _have_ made a good hypothesis as to why this cavern is separated to the entrance.”

“Um. Have I?” Jaskier says uncertainly, unused to Yennefer’s praise.

Yennefer exhales tiredly, and steps delicately down from the rocky mound surrounding the column. Geralt follows her, jumping from the top of the boulder and splashing into the shallow puddles below.

“Yes, bard. I have been wondering why the entrance way was guarded in the way it was. There is always a _reason_ for magic – in this case, I think the cave has been enchanted to only transport those who complete the ritual at its entrance,” she explains. “The nereids could then have been able to control who came through or not – preventing an army of angry Skelligans, for example, from entering their territory. You will recall, no doubt, that the humans massacred the nymphs upon their expansion across the Continent.”

Jaskier winces. “Yes, I understand basic history, Yennefer, thank you.”

Yennefer gives him a dubious look, as though she doubts his intelligence enough to consider her caution necessary. “Well, it’s a perfect solution. Think about it – nymphs need males in order to reproduce. So they create a hallucinogenic drug in a replenishing bottle, that allows only small groups of people through. The drug inhibits their reason and strength, so that the men are easy prey for their seductions.”

“But then why do the Skelligans fear this cave?” Jaskier counters. “Why did it show us all a vision of your past?”

“I said it explained the entrance, not the cave itself,” Yennefer says shortly. “The magic here predates human settlement. It might have once served a very different purpose, that was appropriated once the nereids were forced to retreat from the land and shores.”

“And that purpose is…?”

“I don’t know, Jaskier, can _you_ translate millennia-old writing?”

Suddenly, Geralt hears a noise ahead - a scream – and holds out a hand to stop the other two from arguing.

“Shut up,” he whispers. “You hear that?”

He hears the scream again. His heart beats quickly as he recognises the sound, his soul vibrating with it. He knows that voice. He would know it anywhere.

“It’s _Ciri_ ,” Geralt whispers, and immediately breaks into a sprint towards it.

“Geralt, wait–” he hears Jaskier say, but his entire being is focused on the idea that he might finally see Ciri again, that she might have been trapped here all this time–

 _Perhaps she was the source of the power Yennefer had felt, perhaps we were being led to her, perhaps she has lost control over her magic_ –

He sees her figure ahead, and nearly trips in his haste to get to her. She is sitting on a raised rock with her legs tucked into her chest, her body half-submerged in the mist. Her body is clothed in a slim white dress, and her silver hair tumbles around her, unbound and unkempt. Her face is ashen, her body a skeletal echo of its former self.

“CIRI!” Geralt screams. He runs to her, heedless of anything else around him.

His heart stop as she looks up at him. She screams out in shock, and starts crying openly.

“Geralt,” she wails. “Oh, Geralt.” She untucks her body to try and reach for him, and it is then that Geralt sees the blood streaming from her chest.

“No,” Geralt says weakly. It is a mortal wound, that much is clear – she has lost too much blood, too much…

“It’s alright,” Ciri whispers, stumbling into his arms. “You just missed them. I waited for so long, Geralt, but I just couldn’t hold out any longer.”

“No, no,” Geralt murmurs, holding her trembling body delicately in his arms. “No, you’ll be alright. Shh, it’s okay, I’ll get – Yennefer, YENNEFER!”

Yennefer comes into view behind Ciri, Jaskier looking apprehensive by her side.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says slowly. “It’s not real.”

“Of course it’s real,” Geralt hisses. “Does she look like a spirit to you? She’s been missing, this is where she’s been – _help_ her!”

Yennefer looks at him with pity in her eyes, and Geralt snarls at her. “Give me a spell, a potion, something!”

Yennefer lowers her eyes, nodding, and her hands go to her belt.

“Come here, Ciri,” Yennefer says, her voice trembling with restraint. Ciri looks at Geralt, then stumbles over into the sorceress’ arms.

“I was so scared,” Ciri whispers, and a look of terrible pain dawns upon Yennefer’s face. She leans forward over Ciri, and Geralt sees her holding something in her fist. He hears Jaskier breathe in sharply, and then – then Yennefer is stabbing Ciri through with her dagger. Blood spurts out from her neck, spilling bright red across her pale skin. She slumps, and falls to the ground.

Geralt’s heart stops. “What – how could – you _killed her!_ ” he cries, and throws himself at Yennefer, shoving her roughly to the cave floor.

“GERALT!” Jaskier shouts, and tackles him sideways. Geralt goes sprawling into a puddle, water splashing over them both. He scrambles to get purchase, crushing Jaskier to the floor, placing his hands on the bard’s neck–

“Geralt, her body!” Jaskier says in a rush. “Her body is gone! She wasn’t real!”

Geralt stares down at the man underneath him, and then glances uncertainly over to the rock where he had held Ciri. In her place is a glowing blue swallow, hopping around the rock and tilting its head sideways to stare back at him.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, looking back at Jaskier. The bard’s eyes are apologetic, as though _he_ has something to be sorry for. Geralt hastily removes his hands from his neck, and helps his friend to his feet.

“I – I’m sorry. Forgive me, both of you.” Geralt says slowly. Yennefer is already standing up again. She doesn’t look at Geralt, her gaze caught on the swallow.

“Come on,” Jaskier says finally, after several moments pass in tense silence. “We have to catch up to the whale.”

They set off once more, the air heavy with unspoken words. _Yen was right_ , Geralt thinks. This was powerful, ancient magic – enough to send a witcher into a berserk rage and hurt the people closest to him. It was clear now why the caves had proven so fatal for so many. If it had been anyone but Jaskier or Yennefer, Geralt is not sure he could have stopped before they were dead.

“I knew,” Geralt says slowly, as they walk. “I knew I had been drugged, I saw the Cave create Yennefer’s illusion, and yet all of that fell aside when I heard that scream…”

Yennefer glances at him, and then back towards the cavern ahead. “It fooled me too, Geralt. Do not think too poorly of yourself. The drug may well have weakened your magical resistance, as well as your inhibiting your reason when provoked.”

Geralt still feels as though he has failed the both of them, and they continue onwards through the tunnels in silence. He notices suddenly that the crystals upon the columns have grown larger in size than his head, and are now jutting out of the surface of the water and ceiling. The fish-ghosts, too, are more numerous than before, and the combined effect of their light and the reflections from the crystals creates enough illumination that Geralt feels as though they are standing in full daylight.

It is unnaturally quiet, and Geralt realises that the sound of dripping water has ceased. The only noise he can hear now is that caused by their boots splashing in the water, and the much softer sounds of their rhythmic breathing.

“So,” Jaskier says eventually, breaking the silence. “If this place was inhabited by sea people, we aren’t expecting to suddenly come across those… lizard-fish-monster-people that attacked us in Cape Bremervoord, are we?”

Geralt snorts. “No. From what I can tell, the vodyanoy live separately to the civilisations of the Great Sea. They have their own cities, like Ys, and war with the merpeople, nereids and sea witches–”

“Marine _sorceress,_ ” Yennefer corrects.

“–marine sorceresses,” Geralt amends, “who speak a different language entirely.”

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier breathes. “Fish-tits, I can deal with – those lizard things though, they still haunt my nightmares.”

“‘ _Fish-tits_ ,’” Yennefer quotes, unimpressed. “Jaskier, despite your reputation for eloquence, your words never fail to underwhelm me.”

“Well, my dear, I take great pleasure in continually failing to meet your expectations,” Jaskier retorts.

 _At the very least_ , Geralt thinks, _Jaskier seems himself around Yennefer_. The two continue to trade barely-blunted jibes with the prickly familiarity of siblings as they walk ever onwards down the cavern path, the crystals around them growing ever larger as they follow the whale above.

“Jaskier,” he hears himself say suddenly. But – Geralt is sure his lips haven’t moved. And the sound is distant, echoing. He looks at Jaskier in bewilderment, but sees the blood has drained from his friend’s face.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, this time his own mouth shaping the name. “Was – that–”

“You two stay here,” Jaskier says. “I can deal with this.”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt retorts. “Neither Yennefer or I could have survived that alone. You need us.”

“I don’t,” Jaskier says, with a strange certainty.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, holding him back. “Leave him be. It might be better for us to maintain distance outside of the spell’s area of effect – it helped the two of us see through your illusion.”

Geralt growls at both of them. “Let us at least be close enough to see the visions, so we can intervene if we need to.”

Jaskier glares at him, but after a moment of prolonged eye contact, he gives in and sighs in defeat. “Fine,” he mutters. “Just. Keep well back. I know how good your hearing is.” He storms off into the mists, and Geralt follows the churning trail he leaves behind in the vapour.

After a few moments, Yennefer tugs at him again, and tilts her head to indicate two distant, murky shapes. The mists are circling around Jaskier and a tall, glowing figure he is speaking to.

 _Me,_ Geralt realises with a sickening lurch of his stomach. Not only did Jaskier fear him, but he was Jaskier’s _greatest_ fear. He wants to go to Jaskier – tell him he’d never hurt him, tell him that he could leave forever, tell him _anything_ to allay his fears _,_ but Yennefer’s grip on his arm reminds him that he made a promise not to interfere unless necessary.

Across the clearing, Jaskier laughs. He sees him shake his head at the ghost-Geralt, and lean forward as though to whisper something in the ghost’s ear. The ghost collapses, blue energy swirling around Jaskier’s dagger where he had plunged it into the spirit’s chest. The spirit light coalesces into a wolf, and Jaskier bends down to pat it fondly.

Yennefer finally lets go, and Geralt rushes forward to his friend’s side, crossing the space between them as quickly as he can. He skids to a stop before the bard, and he runs his eyes up and down Jaskier’s body to make sure he had suffered no injury.

“Are you unharmed?”

“I said I could deal with it,” Jaskier replies coolly, standing up. The wolf looks at the bard mournfully, as though it were upset that his petting had ceased.

Yennefer arrives next to him, looking impressed. “How did you break the spell so easily?” she asks, genuine curiosity in her voice and not a trace of her usual disdain.

Jaskier shrugs, and avoids Geralt’s gaze again. “Just, I’ve sort of – accepted my fear will happen. So, it didn’t catch me by surprise. Something like that.”

“Hmm,” Yennefer says. Geralt opens his mouth to say something reassuring to Jaskier, but Yennefer grinds her heel into his foot and he breaks off to glare at her.

“Let’s get going, shall we?” she asks sweetly. “We must have passed the trials of this place now. Hopefully that means that we shall be led to our prize.”

She looks around for the whale, but finds it is gone. Jaskier, on the other hand, is looking at the wolf again.

“He’ll take us to where we need to go,” Jaskier says, petting the wolf again. The wolf barks silently, and darts around Jaskier’s legs. It bounds away into the mist, and then turns back to look at them as though waiting for them to follow. “See? Told you.”

“How come ours didn’t do that?” Geralt asks Yennefer. Yennefer shakes her head, but doesn’t otherwise answer.

Geralt mulls the scene over in his head as they walk on, following Jaskier’s ghost-wolf. It is far livelier than the whale, prancing back and forth along the floor and nipping at Jaskier’s heels. The bard laughs and pets it, and the wolf wags its tail with satisfaction.

Ahead, Geralt sees the black darkness of the caverns give way to a distant, glowing light. At the far end of the cave, he makes out a shining wall – no, a colossal crystal, glimmering in the ghostly blue light that surrounds them. It is at least as high as the cavern roof, but may well extend beyond that – he cannot see the top of it. Nor can he see the sides, which extend out as far as he can see in either direction. It is a semi-opaque, murky white colour, and Geralt can vaguely make out dark shapes moving beyond it.

“That looks – very valuable,” Jaskier says, ogling the enormous structure. Geralt’s medallion is burning hotter than the Eternal Fire.

“Well,” Yennefer murmurs. “It seems that we have found the source of the magical energy, at least.”

They walk towards it cautiously. The thrum of energy is vibrating more strongly than ever, bouncing through every bone in Geralt’s body and making him feel as though he is a rattle, being played by the hand of some unknown force. 

The wolf seems to have found a small gap in the crystal’s surface, and it darts inside the opening. Geralt, Jaskier and Yennefer look at each other with a moment of uncertainty, before Jaskier follows it. Geralt sighs and ducks in after him, with Yennefer bringing up the tail. Inside, they make their way through into a cramped tunnel formed from a fissure in the shining stone.

“It’s salt,” Yennefer says behind him. Geralt does not have the room to manoeuvre, so he replies instead of turning back to give her an inquisitive look.

“Salt?”

“It’s an enormous salt crystal,” Yennefer marvels. “Take off your gloves and taste it. It’s salt.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Jaskier replies from in front of them. “I think I’ll leave the rock-tasting to you, Yennefer.” He glances back at Geralt, who looks at him reprovingly even as the corner of his mouth curls up in amusement.

At last the path widens out, and they emerge in a shining garden, glowing beds of seaweed swaying in a non-existent current. They are inside a dome – inside the enormous, hollowed-out centre of the crystal. Merpeople and fish of all shapes and sizes swim around the top of the chamber, their tails glistening in the blue light. But they are ghosts as well, as pale as the spirits that had guided them here.

Geralt looks up, and sees that sunlight is streaming in from the top of the crystal. It falls down to the ground in bars of shifting light, sections of shadows and light that the fish spirits dart in and out of. On the ground around them, he notices the spirits of what must be nereids, moving around in the shadows of the enormous ocean plants. Their long hair flows around them with the ocean current, tangling in the weeds and grasses.

“We’re under the sea, aren’t we?” Jaskier says, shocked. The wolf blinks at him, and then shifts into a large orb, swirling around the bard and sparkling with reflected light. Yennefer and Geralt watch as Jaskier pets the orb once more. Then, finally, it floats, joining the other multitude of fish and merpeople that swarm overhead like so many birds in the sky.

 _This is where those other ghosts must have escaped from,_ Geralt thinks. He had once seen something like this in a mages’ feast many years ago, a school of many-coloured fish suspended in the air above the tables in an enormous orb of water. These fish, however, are as colourless as the crystal that contains them – and they have no water in which to swim.

He looks down again, and notices that there is a throne in the centre of the dome, made of the same salt crystal as the chamber itself. Upon the throne sits a woman, as white as the ghosts around her. Her hair seems to be made of moss, and tumbles around her in such a way that she seems to have grown into the chair, or have been birthed by it.

Geralt walks towards her, tugged by some half-conscious instinct. Glowing fish dart out of his path, as though they were tangible creatures and not merely ghosts. The nereids approach him, but stop several yards away, watching with creepily empty eyes. They remind Geralt of the sailors who had watched them leave the shipyard in Kaer Trolde.

“ _Come_ ,” the woman says, her voice mellifluous and resonant. It sparks through Geralt, and he hears it pulse through his mind alongside the magic. “ _I have awaited your arrival, Witcher._ ”

The woman is naked as far as Geralt can tell, although the moss-hair covers much of her body. She is so luminescent that, now he is closer, looking upon her skin somewhat blinds him. He squints against the brightness, and is careful to keep his gaze rested just left of her head, to the stony throne she sits on.

He stops right in front of the throne, a few feet away from her, and the woman smiles.

“ _You are Geralt of Rivia,_ ” she says, her voice reverberating in his head. “ _It is said you helped one of my children, once, Sh’eenaz. You have a reputation for justice and mercy, among our kind._ ”

“Your kind?” Yennefer asks. He and Jaskier seem to have followed Geralt to the centre of the garden, although he was in such a daze he had not noticed until now.

“ _The gods_ ,” the woman says, nonchalantly. Geralt hears Jaskier splutter behind him.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Geralt says, sinking down on one knee and bowing his head in respect. “But I do not know with which god I am speaking.”

The woman stands from her throne, and walks to Geralt. The ends of her hair stick to the throne, and creating long strands that sway in the air between her head and the stone.

“ _I am called Sedna, Lady of the Sea_ ,” she says, touching Geralt’s shoulder. “ _Rise, Geralt of Rivia. I have a quest for you._ ”

Geralt blinks, standing upon her command. “A quest?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, and looks up with a sad smile towards the light-filled top of the crystal dome. “ _I want you to kill me_.”

There’s silence for a moment as all three members of her audience absorb her request. “Why do you want Geralt to kill you?” asks Yennefer, finally.

She turns to Yennefer and smiles with approval, as though recognising an equal. “ _Because my time for death has come,_ ” she says mysteriously. A nereid spirit approaches her tentatively, and she strokes the face of the girl. The ghost weeps, and buries her head in the goddess’ bosom.

“ _My children have suffered because of my foolishness,_ ” she admits. “ _I was warned of a great disaster, and told to sacrifice myself to avert the death of the mortals I loved. Yet I did not heed my sister’s warning. I thought I could protect my kingdom, and those dearest to me. And so they died for it – they, and countless others, slain by my own stubborn pride._ ”

She is still smiling, but her eyes are filled with grief, and tears spill from her eyes down her pale white cheeks. The nereid ghost dissolves, and morphs into a small, glowing ball of light. It swims up towards the ceiling, among the rest of the spirits.

“Why did you need to sacrifice yourself?” Jaskier asks. “Why not use your powers to stop the storms? To calm the seas?”

“ _My powers_ are _the storms,_ ” Sedna replies. “ _The Darkness is consuming my power for itself. I am losing control of it – the seas rise, ships capsize, and none of it is under my power anymore.”_

She sighs, and the breath escapes her mouth in a burst of white mist. “ _The first shockwave was enough to kill the entirety of my ocean court. I watched my friends fall, their bodies wrenched apart by my powers, let loose in a moment of anger. I fled when I realised what had happened, sealed myself deep within this cavern so that the rest of the world might be spared. But it was not enough. The magic escapes me in great shocks of energy that reverberate further and further beyond this place, killing everything in its path. Every day, the Darkness wrests more control from me. I was barely able to muster the energy to stop the storms today, so you might make safe passage here.”_

“It was you that stopped the storms,” Geralt breathes. “But how did you know we were coming?”

Sedna seems to laugh, although the sound is less like laughter and more like the mighty cries of seagulls. “ _Did you forget? I am called a goddess for good reason, Witcher. The water whispers in my ear. The fish babble with tales from distant shores. The sea birds, of course, are the worst gossips of all. With their eyes and ears I see the happenings in the world of men. The choice to come here was your own. But I eased your path as best I could_.”

“The legends about you are all true, then?” Yennefer says. “You really look out for sailors, and guide their path upon the seas? I do not mean to insult you, my lady, but I had thought most of the gods to be a myth, or exaggeration of some other phenomenon.”

“ _The gods are no myth. I have watched over these oceans for centuries, although I cannot be everywhere at once. When I could, I tried to save those that needed help. But many sailors are disgusting, vile creatures, even those that worship me – they incurred my wrath, and their own deaths. The human race was unbearable to observe, and so I retreated from the surface, into my underwater palaces to live amongst the people of the sea. I do not interfere in the world above as I once did – or I did not, until the Darkness seized my power._ ”

“And the only way to free you from the Darkness is through death?”

Sedna smiles sadly. “ _It is the only way. There is no being in this realm that is equal to its might, no magic that might best it. Such is the extent of its power_.”

“But, it – it is – such a waste,” Jaskier bursts out emotionally, his face scrunched up with anger. “To have a goddess die, when you have lived so long – the stories you could tell! – and all of it because of this damn Blight!” he finishes passionately.

 _“It is no concern to me, little one_ ,” Sedna replies, and her voice seems to carry undercurrents of pity. “ _You could not understand my heart, when you are so young. Mortal creatures spend their lives trying to outrun death, fearing its embrace. But I have made peace with it, now. I have lived for many, many years, longer than human memory_. _Life was born in the oblivion of the deep ocean, and all things will return to that oblivion one day, even gods. That is inevitable. I will be forgotten, as the gods who fell long before me have been forgotten._ ”

She stares at Jaskier, unblinking. “ _But… Perhaps you will write me a song, so they will remember me for a little longer._ ”

Jaskier opens his mouth, turns red, closes it, and nods abruptly. Geralt notices suddenly that the nereid ghosts around them have gotten closer without his noticing, and their stares are even more intense than before.

“This place…” Geralt says suddenly. “Is it your doing? The magic that shows men their fears? These ghosts around us?”

The goddess shakes her head. “ _This place existed before me, or my kind. It is an ancient crypt, a place inscribed with magic that creates ghosts of those who have passed. Its energies give form to the dead, so that the living may commune with them. I sealed myself here to beg forgiveness from those I killed, to speak with them again before I die.”_

“And the illusion magic?” Yennefer asks. “Was that also the doing of the ancients?”

“ _It is the same magic. These ghosts are not real souls; they are spirits of the dead conjured from one’s own memories. To speak with the dead here, one must hold control over the ancient magics. The illusions you saw are born of the cave trying to give form to your own ghosts – and without proper control, the magic corrupts into something overwhelming.”_

Yennefer has a glint in her eye that Geralt recognises. He has seen it before, many times, from the day they first met.

“How do I gain control of such ancient magics? Why _can’t_ I control them?”

The goddess is silent for a moment, and Geralt fears Yennefer has insulted her. To his relief, however, she eventually speaks with some halting hesitation.

“ _The nymphs’ magics are not… yours to control. There are some things you must accept you cannot alter, Yennefer of Vengerberg. You are a human, a foreign species to this world, and one far less powerful than my own.”_

That catches Geralt’s attention.

“The gods are… a foreign species?”

Sedna’s smile fades, and she looks past Geralt to an unseen memory in the distance.

“ _We all lived together, once. In a world far away from this one, on a mountain in the sky. Then our world collapsed, and we sought refuge in this one. The goddess you call Freya, or Melitele. My mother, the most powerful among us, led us through the chaos into salvation.”_

“Could she help us?” Yennefer asks tentatively. The goddess focuses back on the three of them, and shakes her head slowly. Hair ripples out from the action, flowing sluggishly in the air behind her.

“ _She died, many years ago. Once, I thought my grief for her death could not be eclipsed._ ” The goddess smiles ruefully. “ _But – I have grieved enough, I think. I am ready now to face death and join my friends and family in the land where their souls rest_.” The goddess looks up at the shining spectres floating around them, and sighs. “ _I have been lonely for too long, and speaking with my own memories in this cave will not bring back the true flesh and blood I have lost._ ”

She takes Geralt’s hands in her own, and Geralt is chilled by their icy touch, even through his gloves. “ _Do not make the same mistakes as me, Geralt of Rivia,_ ” she murmurs, her words for his ears alone. “ _Appreciate the lives surrounding yours. Life seems to go so slowly, and yet – even for the gods – one day all that is left to us are ghosts and echoes_.”

Above them, the blue spectres start dissolving, their essences floating slowly to the ground like snow. The whole dome is lit now by tiny glowing orbs, thousands of them, and Geralt sees that the goddess is crying.

“ _Time grows short_ ,” she says, and Geralt feels his eyes sting with the pain of being this close to her shining form. “ _I cannot hold control over my power for much longer_.”

“Wait,” Yennefer cries. “I – we need to know. The Darkness you mentioned – do you know what it is, or how it can be killed? This curse is not just affecting Skellige – it is sucking magic from the land, from the people, and we do not know how to stop it.”

The goddess looks at her, through the glowing snowfall. It seems as though there is pity in her eyes. “ _I am not all-knowing_ ,” she replies, “ _I am only a god by virtue of your people calling me such. I can sense the Darkness lurking beyond this plane, but do not know what it is, or even if it is sentient – I only know that it is feeding not only from this world, but from many others._ ” She frowns, and closes her eyes.

“Other worlds?” Jaskier exclaims.

“You mentioned a sister, other gods,” Geralt interrupts. “Would they know more about it? Could we find them?”

“ _Perhaps. Very few remain, now. But there is one who I know still lives – my eldest sister, Lyfia. The elves call her Dana Meadbh_.”

Yennefer and Jaskier both seem to exhale with the same, startled breath.

Sedna opens her eyes again. “ _Like me, she loves her people too much. Like me, she will not have killed herself, but imagined she was powerful enough to best the Darkness. Perhaps she is. She was always much stronger than I, even when we were children._ ”

“How do we find her?” Geralt asks doggedly. “Or any of the others that remain?”

“ _She is predictable, my sister. Your best chance at finding her is to go into the fields of Dol Blathanna during Lammas, and pray for her to show you guidance. The other gods_ …” she frowns. “ _They are either dead, or hide in plain sight, disguising themselves and living as mortals. My brother – Kreve, as he is known to you – you might find, if you are lucky. Look for him in brothels. It is how he tries to forget the pain of centuries. Other than that, I am afraid I cannot help you._ ”

“Thank you,” Geralt says fervently. “We will find your siblings, and do what we can to stop this ‘Darkness’. We will not let your sacrifice be in vain.”

She looks at the ghosts surrounding her with a melancholy smile, and dismisses them with another wave of her hands. “ _Now, Witcher. Kill me, and perhaps I will be granted the chance to look upon my sister once more._ ”

Geralt draws his silver sword, and Sedna regards him with a look of radiant benevolence. “ _Now_ , _complete your quest, Geralt of Rivia. I command it_.”

She nods, just once, giving him the permission he needs.

Jaskier shouts out in alarm as Geralt swings his sword around, cutting her head clean off her body. As soon as he does, the long strands of her mossy hair begin to disintegrate, and her skin seems to fracture and explode with light. Geralt covers his eyes with the back of his unarmed hand.

He hears a deep rumble from above, and blinks away the starbursts in his eyes. Above them, he can just make out the arched ceiling of the crystal dome cracking open. Suddenly, the ground under his feet begins to shake.

Jaskier cries, “Geralt! We’ve got to get out of here!”

Geralt looks once, briefly, at the goddess’ collapsed body, and then looks to where they entered the dome, walls around the passageway already crumbling, shards of crystal falling around them.

“Let’s go!” Yennefer yells, and the three of them take off in a mad sprint towards the entrance. A shard narrowly misses Jaskier’s head, and he yelps in shock as the fallen crystal explodes into tiny pieces around him.

They stop abruptly, watching in horror as the crystal wall gives way entirely. Cracks spread across the surface and enormous chunks start falling down upon their heads.

Geralt grabs Jaskier to his chest and cries, “Yennefer!”

“I know!” she snaps, and rips open a hole in space, a swirling dark chasm that Geralt does not hesitate to leap through at once. Immediately, he feels ripped apart by the pressure of the magical void, a sensation even more terrible than usual. His breath gets crushed within his lungs, and he is filled with the terrible panic of a drowning man. His brain feels as though it might explode and leak out through his ears.

 _I wonder if I am dying,_ Geralt thinks distantly.

No sooner has the thought passed his mind that the pressure suddenly releases him, and he lands on cold stone. He springs to his feet, and barely has enough time to register the small stone chamber around him before portal holes appear on either side of him. Yennefer and Jaskier tumble out of the voids, along with small chunks of salt crystal that scatter around the tiled floor.

“Bloody hell,” Jaskier moans.

Geralt helps Jaskier to his feet, the bard coughing and bleeding from a wound on his forehead. Jaskier catches sight of something behind him, and his eyes go wide with fear. Geralt's head whips around to see Yennefer still lying, unmoving, on the floor.

“Yen!” Geralt exclaims, rushing to her side. “Come on, Yen. Yen!”

He taps the side of her face lightly, and almost cries out in relief as she opens her eyes. Her gaze focuses on him, and she winces.

“I don’t think I’ll be casting any large spells again,” she whispers slowly. Geralt feels his heart stop in his chest. Yennefer of Vengerberg is sick, and weak, and powerless. None of these things should be possible.

“Um,” Jaskier says, nervously, behind them. “Uh. where are we, exactly?”

“You’re in Ban Ard,” comes a familiar, sweet voice. “And not a moment too soon.”

Geralt turns to see Triss Merigold standing in the doorway, an exhausted smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on Geralt and Jaskier’s Adventure With The Fishpeople and Sh’eenaz, you can skim through ‘A Little Sacrifice’ from _Sword of Destiny_ , which is referenced again much later on in this fic. (If you read it, you might get a sense of why.)
> 
> If you'd like to know more about the nymphs, and the pantheon of gods, or anything else from canon, the Witcher Wiki is an excellent resource I've been mining mercilessly!


	11. Feainn - Part One

“My horse,” Geralt says, and Jaskier says at the same time, “my _lute_.”

Yennefer looks between them both, sighs, and says, “ _Men_.”

They are both standing at the foot of her bed, staring down at the dishevelled sorceress. Yennefer’s face is pale and moist with sweat, and her hair is dishevelled and limp. Underneath the coverlets, Geralt thinks he sees her wearing a humble white nightgown, something that somehow unnerves him more than the rest of her sickly appearance.

Triss lurks at her side, arms crossed, hovering like an overprotective nursemaid. “This isn’t helping her rest,” she announces loudly, and Yennefer shoots her a look of icy rage.

“I’ll be the judge of how much _rest_ I need, thank you,” Yennefer says, but Triss seems unaffected by Yennefer’s wrath, and ignores her entirely.

“It’s just,” Jaskier says nervously, looking Yennefer in the face with some difficulty, “it’s just that, you see. Uh. The lute is rather special, to me–”

“I want my fucking horse back,” Geralt snarls. “The longer I leave him tied up in the stables of Kaer Trolde, the more likely it is he’ll be killed for meat.”

“Come now, Geralt,” Triss interjects. “Surely the King of the Skellige Isles owes you a favour – it seems most royal families on the Continent do, these days.”

“Actually I’d say the royals are about an even split between owing him a favour and wanting him dead,” Jaskier mutters.

“It doesn’t matter what they do or do not owe,” Geralt says, shaking his head. “You’re missing the point. The people in Skellige are starving the same way the rest of the Continent is. They are starving, and desperate, and they will eat my horse before they turn to leather and bark for sustenance. It’s been _weeks_ since we arrived, and it seems as though the sorceresses have no intention of sending us back.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer says sharply. “Forget the fucking horse. You can get another one. As for you,” she says, glaring at Jaskier, “We’ll buy one from the elves in Dol Blathanna when we send someone there for Lammas.”

“ _We_ can go to Dol Blathanna,” Jaskier starts, before Yennefer cuts him off with a withering look.

“Don’t be stupid. We’ll send one of our best sorceresses, someone who can actually track Dana Meadbh, or whatever this entity is.”

“But–”

“If you want to make yourself useful,” Triss says loudly, “Perhaps you could assist by settling in the new refugees. _Now,_ if you don’t mind.” The steel in her voice allows for no argument.

Geralt glares at her, but grits his teeth and leaves the room with Jaskier in tow. Triss sweeps out after them, her sorceress’ robes swishing across the floor as she goes.

“You’re being selfish,” Triss remarks, as they travel down a carpeted corridor. “You know how much energy we spend on a single portal jump now. You know how we have to join together, rotate out teams of mages in order to accomplish the simplest things. You’ve _just seen_ how much it taxes us.”

“Then let me travel without magic!” Geralt snaps. “I just want to fucking leave this place. We’ve been here weeks and _nothing_ is getting done, no progress is being made, and somewhere out there Ciri could be alone and sick and dying!”

Triss storms ahead in front of Geralt, turning and blocking him from moving any further. “You think you’re the only one who cares about Ciri?” she barked, looking at Geralt with shades of Yennefer’s disdain. “Do you know how much Yen cares for her? How much _I_ do? Believe me, the Lodge wants her power too. So much so that _even now_ , we have watchers out looking for her. Birds, mice, and minor mages. There’s been no report, Geralt. And you think you, _one witcher_ , can make more progress on that can we have?”

Geralt is a little taken aback by her abrasiveness. Tensions had been mounting within Ban Ard for weeks, but Triss had always been much gentler in character than Yennefer.

“Look,” Jaskier says placatingly. “I think we’re all just a bit stressed, and need to calm down a bit–”

“ _You_ shouldn’t even be here,” Triss says coolly. “Another non-magical _human_ to add to the rabble inhabiting this castle. There used to be a law against that, back when the Brotherhood ruled over it.”

“Throw him out then, and me with him,” Geralt proposes, changing tack. “We’ll get out of your way, and go investigate some leads rather than just sitting around in a library all day reading dusty tomes.”

Triss sighs, and surveys Geralt with some calculation in her eye. Geralt cannot help but feel as though he is a vegetable at market being checked for blemishes.

“You know, I used to admire that brash attitude,” she says eventually, a little sadly. “But your arrogance is wrong on this occasion. You’re so used to fighting things by yourself, you can’t see that we need people to work as a team now. This isn’t a monster you can defeat for some contract Geralt; this is a _fucking apocalypse_.”

The declaration leaves the corridor bathed in a pregnant silence; before now, nobody had dared put such a calamitous thought to words. But it is true – if things deteriorate as they have been, the people of the world will perish. They all know it.

“I just – don’t know what to do to help,” Geralt admits, after an awkward moment of Triss glaring at him and Jaskier looking like he desperately wanted an escape shaft to open somewhere in the wall. “The mages won’t tell me what’s going on, the refugees don’t trust me, and Yen barely speaks to me. All Jaskier and I have been told to do is sit in a room and read elven poetry, and not know if any of it is useful or even makes sense at all!”

“I know,” Triss says grudgingly, “I know it’s hard. But you just have to trust we are doing our best, and that your work _is_ important. I will talk to Yennefer and we will see if there is an opportunity to send you out on a mission at the earliest opportunity. In the meanwhile, however – I meant it about helping the refugees.”

Geralt stares at her. He’d been keeping to the upper levels of the castle because if anything, he’d been spat and cursed at by the refugees even more than was the norm. “You can’t be serious,” he says. “I’m a bloody witcher, I’ve killed more than a few of their kind, and they know it. Hell, I’m pretty sure there are people downstairs I helped to put in prison, or whose family and friends I have slain.”

“We are _all_ working together now,” Triss says with righteous superiority. “The war for hearts is as important as the war for coin. Try to make friends, for once, both of you.” She gives them a last imperious look, and then brushes past them as she makes her way back to Yennefer’s room.

“Fine,” Geralt mutters, “Fine. Let’s go and _help._ ”

“Go and help a cornucopia of mages and magical creatures that want revenge on you? Sounds fun!” Jaskier laughs. “I suppose it’s too late to pretend we don’t know each other?”

Geralt huffs in half-amusement, half-exasperation. “Perhaps you shouldn’t go around introducing yourself as – what was it? ‘Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, better known as Jaskier, bard of renown, personal and dear friend to the witcher Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.’” He raises an eyebrow at Jaskier. “Did I get it all?”

Jaskier hides a smile and throws up his hands in defeat. “What can I say?” he grins. “Titles go a long way when you want to impress people.”

* * *

Geralt had heard so many conflicting stories about Ban Ard over the years that he hadn’t quite been sure what to expect. The night they had arrived, they had all found themselves racked with nausea and exhaustion from Yennefer’s hastily constructed portal. Triss had led them to a large dormitory nearby to rest, one that must have last been used several decades ago. The pallets were rotted with mildew, the sheets lined with a thick film of dust – but for once, even Jaskier had not complained. Triss had said that they needed to hide until she and Yennefer could make sure they would be safe here, and then had left the two of them to recover from the journey.

Early the next morning, Geralt had crept out of the room, to get a lay of the land and find an escape route if one was needed. He had found that the lower levels were quite unremarkable – crumbling stones, empty corridors, cobwebs and the odd bat. It was an environment intimately familiar to Geralt, with the unmistakable atmosphere of a building whose residents have long been turned to dust.

Then Triss had returned, and taken them to their new accommodation on the higher levels. It was then that Geralt discovered that the upper floors of the castle were as different to the dungeons as day was to night. The sorcerers had clearly not made idle use of their powers, creating an amalgamation of decorations and architectural features that overwhelmed Geralt, in a way not dissimilar to the smithing guild in Gulet. However, many of the decorations seem to have been stripped from the walls, ceilings and carpets. Geralt imagines that they were stolen, or sold for coin by the mages themselves.

It was a testament to the designers of Ban Ard, then, that despite the stripping down of decorations, the castle was still utterly bizarre. Staircases led into walls with no doors; walls slanted into nonsensical, diagonal corners. Walls were painted with a multitude of colours, or no colour at all; some swirled with faint magical energy, and one housed a large eye that stared ominously at any passer-by. Most places Geralt had been in had a reasonably straight-forward layout, even Aretuza - Ban Ard, on the other hand, seemed determined to be as strange and as labyrinthine as possible. By the same token, however, the distinctive architecture made for easy memorisation; it had taken no trouble at all for Geralt to remember the path from one place to another once he had a bearing on what rooms lay left and right of the Wall Eye.

Some elements of a traditional castle remained intact – for example, the grand central staircase was rather conventional. At the bottom of the staircase was the entrance hall, a cavernous, draughty chamber full of tall columns, a space that seemed to mark the transition between the lower and upper levels. Geralt had not ventured any lower than the dusty dormitories, but in his research in the library he had learned more about what lay below. Ban Ard had been built on top of an existing dwarven settlement, deep in the mountain, and underneath the dungeons and crypts lay tunnels full of dwarven ruins, a treacherous, crumbling maze riddled with ancient traps. Nevertheless, even the deepest tunnels were still miles above the town of Ban Ard, the settlement at the foot of the mountain where the young sorcerers had once caused the kind of mayhem that came of housing young, entitled men together. Of course, in those days the sorcerers could simply teleport between the two locations, and were not under threat from the occupying forces of Redania.

Geralt knows the Redanians do not yet suspect that Ban Ard has been filled with enemies of the King, and he knows the castle is almost completely cut off from the rest of the world - but he nevertheless feels unsettled at the thought of mage-hunters so close at hand.

“Bloody hell,” Jaskier swears, as they arrive at the great hall, a grand ballroom positioned above the entrance hall on the first floor. The space has been turned into a chaotic refugee camp. Tents and miscellaneous personal belongings cramp what was once a spacious dining hall, with long wooden tables pushed each other in a corner to make room for well over a hundred people trying to dig out their own square yard of territory.

“Bloo-dy-hell,” Jaskier repeats, watching yet more newcomers traipse into the hall, only to stare in exhausted disbelief at the lack of space for them to put down their things.

“Come on,” a dark-skinned woman in yellow mage robes says to them, pointing to the grand staircase outside the hall. “We’re relocating the new ones down below ground. It’s colder down there, so we’ll need to keep fires lit, but there’s no point even trying to fit any more in here.”

Geralt looks at the scraggly collection of people in front of him, and picks out an old woman carrying a heavy cabinet on her back.

“Here, let me take that,” he says. She turns and flinches upon seeing him. “Relax,” he adds soothingly, as though talking to Roach. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just trying to help.”

After a moment of intense scrutiny, she relents and allows him to take the cabinet off her back. Geralt nearly drops it. “Gods, how did you carry this?” he mutters. “The fuck is in here?”

The woman wraps her shawl around her shoulder proudly, stretching her back out as she does so. “None of your business, Witcher!” she crows.

Geralt is half considering giving it back to her, but he dutifully carries it down the central staircase to the entrance hall, and again down the side stairwell to the depths of the castle. Whatever magic is keeping the upper floors of the castle warm seems to have no effect here; a great chilly gust of wind startles Geralt and he sees several of the refugees shiver violently.

The woman in charge has led them to the lower dormitories, the same place they had sheltered on the night of their arrival. The intervening weeks do not appear to have made the rooms any more hospitable, however; although the chambers are better sheltered than the entrance hall, they are still terribly cold and ill-provisioned.

“Sorry,” the yellow-robed sorceress says to them all. “This is where the castle used to keep slaves and servants. When the Academy took over, they decided to keep the dungeons as a place for misbehaving students and soldiers. It’s a little nicer than a prison, at least. Just don’t go down to the crypts.”

“The crypts?” Geralt asks sharply. “Is there a ghost there? Some sort of monster?”

The sorceress shoots him a withering look. “We don’t need your heroics here; we can deal with those things on our own. No, the old sorcerers grew jealous of Aretuza and decided to replicate their collection of elven skulls and bones. Not surprising when their performance was so substandard to our own, but I don’t know how they thought imitating skeletal architecture was going to improve their mastery of magic. It’s just _creepy_ being down there, nothing more sinister than that.”

“You’re saying the mage academies of the Continent had a pissing contest with elven remains,” Jaskier surmises. “Truly, you mages are a noble bunch, aren’t you?”

 _Now he’s done it,_ Geralt thinks exasperatedly, preparing himself for a confrontation – but the sorceress never gets a chance to reply, as they are interrupted by another voice.

“I don’t mind living there,” a young girl pipes up loudly. “I want my own space. Don’t like sharing. Don’t care about dead elves. Can I set up a tent in the crypts?”

“Regular Yennefer of Vengerberg, that one,” Jaskier whispers to Geralt. Geralt elbows him with more force than strictly necessary, and the ten or so stacked pots or pans Jaskier had been precariously carrying tumble to the floor with an enormous crashing sound. “Oh – gods, Geralt, _now_ look what you’ve done. Just a joke!”

Geralt grunts, as the sorceress glares at them with narrowed eyes. When she is certain they are not up to any immediate mischief, she bends down to pat the girl on the shoulder. “Sorry, it’s easier for us to monitor and care for everyone when they are in the same place. We’re documenting everyone who enters the castle, so nothing untoward happens. That way, everyone can be kept track of and made to pull their own weight. We’re all working together now.”

“Melitele’s tits,” the old woman with the cabinet rasps. “I know that rhetoric. You’re just going to pack us all up and put us in service of Nilfgaard. I knew it was a mistake looking to you for sanctuary. Never knew the mages to be selfless, and I was right!”

“In case you have forgotten, Kaedwen was retaken by Redania last winter,” the sorceress says drily. “If they hadn’t, well – perhaps Radovid would have been defeated, and we the better off for it. And you really don’t know what you’re speaking of with regards to Nilfgaard, either,” the sorceress continues in a bored voice. “ _I_ am a sorceress from the Empire. Much has changed in the past few months, and the Emperor is aware of the catastrophe we face if we do not act. That’s better than I can say for Radovid, who has taken the sickness affecting magic users as a miracle of the Church of the Eternal Fire, and claimed the Blight is the mages’ retribution for it.”

“Better to burn for Radovid’s crusade than serve the rats of Nilfgaard,” the woman spits. The sorceress rolls her eyes.

“If that is how you feel, then know you are not being held prisoner here. Our purpose is to research and cure the Blight, and seek to understand how it affects magic users. If and when we are successful in stopping it, there is no intention of turning you over to Nilfgaard. Besides, Nilfgaard has larger priorities than to worry about a few stray mages.” She eyes the other refugees warily. “Does anybody else have any objections? Resources are limited as it is; do not feel as though I particularly need to keep any of you here. You’re welcome to walk down the mountain at any time you choose, if you think you can survive the treacherous path.”

“Trapped,” the old woman mutters.

“If we’re all sick,” a young man says, raising his hand as though they were in a council chamber or a school, “How come you’re putting us all in the same place? Ain’t that like, - what’s that word – conflagious?”

“The sickness isn’t _contagious_ ,” the sorceress says, bored again. “That much, we are certain of.” She looks around at the dishevelled group, and sighs. “If that’s all, I will leave you to unpack your belongings. Meals are distributed outside the Great Hall whenever the central bell is struck once; when the bell is struck three or more times in succession, it is a warning that Ban Ard is under attack. At any time during the day, a senior member of the Lodge may collect you to assist with their spells or research. You are welcome anywhere up to the first floor of the Academy, but higher levels are out of bounds. Anyone found to be breaking the law of Kaedwen will be subject to severe punishment – this includes the death penalty for murder, and bodily mutilation for incidents of rape and theft. Are there any questions?”

The refugees look up at her with wide eyes, silent.

“Good,” she says abruptly. “I am Esralem of Winneburg. Ask for me if you have important information to convey about the Blight – otherwise, report to Anisse of Orlagor for any day to day issues or concerns. Good day.”

Esralem turns and ascends the stairs with great speed, as though she were hoping to escape the room of refugees as soon as possible.

“What are we meant to do now?” Jaskier asks.

“Help them unpack, I suppose,” Geralt says heavily. He begins by helping the older woman set up a tent and makeshift bedding, lugging her cabinet inside the small tent with some difficulty.

“Thank goodness,” the woman says, opening the cabinet to reveal dozens of beautiful dresses. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost these.”

Geralt is halfway to commenting on her choice of possessions to bring to Ban Ard when he bites his tongue, remembering Triss’s request to make peace. Shaking his head, he goes to assist another woman with some sort of enchanted tent, similar to the one Yennefer once had.

“Used to be able to do this with my eyes closed,” she says, flapping out a cloth and watching the tent inflate slowly before retracting into a tiny square, over and over again. “Now it’s like nothing I own works any more, least of all my own magic.”

“I can ask for another tent?” Geralt suggests, when she gives up and sinks to the floor with exhaustion.

“No, no,” she says hastily. “I’ll get it. Just need a rest.”

Jaskier, meanwhile, is talking animatedly to the little girl he had compared to Yennefer, showing her some sort of trick with a coin. She laughs delightedly, her long black hair bouncing around as her body trembles with mirth, and Jaskier grins from ear to ear. 

“Having fun? Not working too hard?” Geralt asks sarcastically, making his way through the piles of makeshift belongings and tents to the bard’s side.

“Made a new friend,” Jaskier says gleefully. “This is Pratima. Say hi to Geralt, Pratima – he won’t bite.”

Geralt regards her with some wariness. “Odd, for a girl so young to be here. Unusual for mages to even develop powers until their pubescence. How is it you are affected by the Blight?”

Pratima grins at him cheekily. “Not much of a witcher if you can’t tell what I am!” she shrieks. “Anyway, this body is just to preserve my energy. Smaller things take less effort.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and regards her for a moment. He notices the strange boldness for a child her age, and runs through the options in his head.

_Certainly not a godling, but not a normal child, either. No, it is a monster of some kind – one that is able to possess or mimic a human child, and yet I sense no malevolence…_

Geralt smiles. “I suppose a doppler is always a useful asset, although there is not a need for espionage with the current crisis.”

“Fuck,” the doppler says, in mock-anger. “I gave too much away. You’re good, Witcher! Any idea if there are any others like me around here? It’s so hard to find others in Novigrad, since we’re all in hiding – but here, I feel like I could tell people what I am and they wouldn’t immediately kill me for it. They might think about it first,” they joke.

“Makes more sense as to why you wanted space in the crypts,” Gerald says thoughtfully. “Room to move around in your natural form, away from others.”

“Oh, yes,” Pratima chirps. “I’m quite hideous, I’ve been told. Humans don’t like being surrounded by anything different, they’d probably kill me in my sleep if they knew what I really looked like!”

“I’ll talk to the sorceresses about letting you stay down there,” Geralt replies. “I’m sure it won’t do any harm.”

Pratima beams, and hugs Geralt around his thighs. “Thank you so much, Witcher! I knew your kind weren’t all bad!”

Geralt scratches his head, a little embarrassed. “Got a friend of your kind, name of Dudu. Don’t think he’d let me live it down if I let one of his brethren get killed for no reason.” _They remind me of a younger Ciri, too,_ he thinks, but does not say. Perhaps that is why Jaskier, too, has taken a shine to his new friend, and they both allow the shapeshifter to accompany them as they carry out various chores around the camp.

* * *

They take their midday meals with the other refugees, sitting awkwardly on the entrance hall steps with poorly scrubbed bowls full of watery soup. Jaskier and Geralt seem to have ended up halfway between the two worlds – not good enough to be allowed into Philippa’s inner circle, but still allowed a private chamber in the upper floors, and to spend their dinner meal at what Jaskier called the ‘war table’.

Geralt wasn’t sure which was worse – the sorceresses glaring at him from their pointy, high-backed dining chairs, or disgruntled mages and magical beings grinning at him menacingly from across a crowded hall. He isn’t too worried about his safety – the sorceresses need Yennefer, and more to the point, the plague has rendered all of them so weak that he doubts there is any person in this castle who poses a real threat to him in single combat. By that same token, however, he knows that it is unlikely any such attack would come about through fair play.

He scans the hall, searching for threats and clusters of activity that might indicate organised plotting.

“I’ve decided a priority for the mages is making this food taste better,” Jaskier is saying to Pratima beside him. He has spent the best part of the morning regaling Pratima with tales of their adventures, greatly exaggerated and, for once, censored out of consideration for the doppler’s apparent age.

“I heard mages can make food appear out of nothing,” Pratima replies eagerly. “Great banquets full of exquisite foods, all the food a person could ever want, more than they could ever eat, even.”

There’s a hungry glint in their eye, one Geralt has grown all too familiar with seeing.

“Not true,” Geralt grunts. “There’s limits, even to magic. Besides, the mages aren’t going to use magic on something so frivolous right now, since…”

He thinks to mention the mysterious plague, and then aborts that conversational tangent. Yennefer would likely be _even more_ furious with him if he started spreading the truth about how powerless the sorceresses really were. He is not unaware of the tentative hold Philippa has over the hodgepodge resistance she has assembled, nor of how many of the refugees were recently enemies to others here.

“Since?” Pratima prompts, tilting their head to the side in confusion.

Jaskier seems to realise both the train of his thought, and the reason for his silence. “Hey,” he says suddenly, nudging Pratima’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come with us to the library this afternoon? I’m afraid the work is quite dull, but the upper levels are a lot warmer than these chilly, crowded halls. It’s quite nice there, actually.”

“No,” Geralt says immediately. “Yennefer said only we were allowed-”

“Oh, _Yennefer said,_ ” Jaskier says mockingly. “When was the last time Yennefer did anything more than order us around Geralt? Days ago? Weeks?”

The use of the word ‘us’ and not ‘you’ does not make his question sting any less.

“Oh, let me come,” Pratima pleads, looking from the witcher to the bard with tearful, wide eyes. “The other people here are _so_ boring, and I’m surrounded by some truly depressing individuals. I’ll make myself look like that mean sorceress – Esralem of whatever-it-was – and nobody will ever know!”

Geralt says, “Well, I don’t think…” at the same time Jaskier turns to him with imploring eyes to match Pratima’s own. He sighs heavily, defeated. “Fine, whatever. But if you get caught, we’ll pretend we didn’t know you were a doppler. You’ll be on your own.”

“Yes, because we’d obviously want to spend quality time with _Esralem_ voluntarily,” Jaskier mutters.

“I’ll take your plates back!” Pratima chips delightedly. “Thank you so, so much! You won’t regret it!”

“I’m already regretting it,” Geralt says under his breath as they zoom off towards the table of soup pots and empty bowls. Jaskier laughs softly beside him.

“Oh, let her come,” Jaskier says quietly. “Gods know I need something to liven up our research time. I never thought I’d miss the unending rancour of the Academy library, but–” He pauses, and then smiles sadly. “–well. I suppose I do miss it, don’t I?”

Geralt shifts his gaze from Pratima to Jaskier, noting how melancholy accentuates the lines around his friend’s eyes. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice, still watching Pratima, and so Geralt takes his time observing his friend.

The past few weeks have been good to Jaskier, Geralt thinks – despite everything, he seems to have overcome the sadness that had been plaguing him these past few months. It seemed just as Yennefer left his left side, Jaskier resumed his place on his right, holding out a hand to steady Geralt as he reeled from the sudden disconnection. Always patient, even when Geralt had been unforgivably cold to him, or angry, or any measure of irrational emotion that Yennefer’s unexplained rejection had instilled in him. Always patient, even when he was explaining Geralt’s own mind to him in an uncanny way that Geralt somewhat resented.

“You’re not angry because she’s not fucking you,” Jaskier had said, about a week ago, while whittling a little flute out of spare firewood. “You’re angry because she won’t tell you why.”

 _That’s the thing about Jaskier,_ Geralt thinks. _He knows me better than I know myself._

To have Yennefer reject him was not a feeling he was unused to – at this point, he was somewhat numb to it. He expected it. Some part of him even believed he deserved it – after all, witchers were not designed for love. But there was an unsettling novelty in the lack of any communication from Yennefer. Their fallouts were usually caused by shouting matches that resulted in anywhere between one and ten square miles of collateral damage. That, or there was simply a reason for them to move on and part ways with each other. But there had been no such shouting match, and no such reason. Instead, they were stuck in a castle together, with Yennefer unwilling to share a bed with him or even a private conversation.

For his part, Jaskier had held his tongue in line for once and resisted any comment about ‘the evils of women’. Instead, he had simply accompanied Geralt every time the witcher left his room, prattling about all manner of things and acting exactly as he used to. If Geralt were not so angry over Yennefer, he would be absurdly pleased by the return to normalcy.

He cannot help but contrast Jaskier with Triss, although it is an unfair comparison; after all, Triss had made no secret of her ulterior motives, when it had been her turn to comfort Geralt. Well, he and Triss are good enough friends now, despite everything – but they are not friends in the way he is friends with Jaskier. _There is no-one like Jaskier._

Pratima dashes back towards them, and Geralt hastily blinks and turns his eyes back to the doppler.

“Let’s go!” they declare, and Geralt and Jaskier rise from their places on the steps. Jaskier winces as he does, shaking his leg out unevenly. Geralt kicks the bard’s shin with his foot, and receives a furious glower in response.

“Getting old, I see,” Geralt says innocently.

“Oh very funny, yes,” Jaskier fumes. “Please, do go on teasing me about my fragile human body. An oft-repeated joke yet somehow one I _never_ tire of.”

Geralt grins despite himself. It is _good_ to have his friend back, truly back. There are moments of melancholy of course – moments like the one where Jaskier remembered the burned library – but on the whole, Geralt feels as though he has recovered a dear childhood toy that he thought had been lost. No, more than that – he feels as though he has recovered a friend.

The three of them ascend the staircase to the first floor, and then duck into a side-corridor, full of portraits of stern looking sorcerers. Jaskier looks stealthily out to the main landing, and then nods to the doppler. Pratima’s body begins to shift and morph into the yellow-robed sorceress.

“How did I do?” they say proudly, twirling on the spot to gaze admiringly down at their own handiwork. “Did I get the embroidery right?”

“Yes, yes, very good,” Jaskier says quickly. “Now let’s get on before Esralem herself finds us. I don’t think we’d be able to explain that away too easily.”

They go up more staircases, Geralt taking the small steps two at a time. Pratima seems to have keenly studied sorceress’ haughty manner too, floating up the stairs behind them with a slight sneer on their face.

“You’d make a great mummer,” Jaskier remarks, as they reach the third-floor landing. “Have you considered theatre?”

“Never thought about it,” Pratima says, with the same dismissive tone Esralem might use.

“Well, you could play any character – gods, they’d pay you a pretty sum to be an understudy. I suppose you can’t really play someone famous without arousing suspicion, but just imagine if you could,” Jaskier speculates, rubbing his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. “Geralt of Rivia, in the flesh, on stage, acting as himself in the great _Witcher and the Dragon_ –” 

“So frequently, Jaskier, I fear you forget how easily I could bring ruin down around you by letting all of your ex-lovers’ spouses know where you are,” Geralt interrupts.

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier laughs. “Who else could stand your company long enough to chronicle the tales of the White Wolf of Rivia?”

“Oh!” Pratima exclaims. “Saint Gregory’s balls, you’re _that_ witcher in the songs!”

“Only because _someone_ won’t stop writing them,” Geralt says dryly, while Jaskier beams. 

The libraries of Ban Ard were filled from floor to high ceiling with crumbling books, rows upon rows of dusty tomes and scrolls so old the ink had sometimes faded. On the far side of the room, an enormous glass window spanned the width and height of a house, something Geralt had been quite impressed by the first time he had seen it. From the window, one could see all the way down the mountain side from the city of Ban Ard, which was nestled in the mountainside, to the river Lixela across the plains and the distant smudge of Ard Carraigh, the capital of Kaedwen, on the horizon. Geralt likes to imagine that to the north, if he looked hard enough, he could see Kaer Morhen nestled in the far reaches of the Blue Mountains.

“Oh,” Pratima says faintly, taking in the sight, morphing back into their preferred child-form. Geralt makes his way to a table in the middle, where they had placed a stack of unread books three days ago and still had not made their way through even half of it.

“ _An Invitation to Magic_ for you Jaskier,” Geralt says, tossing him a thick volume which Jaskier fumbles as he tries to catch it. “Pratima, you can help too. Here, have _The Conjunction of the Spheres._ ”

He throws the doppler a similarly dense book, and then settles into a plush velvet armchair with _Cults and Religions of the Nordlings._

“I’ve already read this one,” Jaskier says after a moment. “I’ll find another – wait a moment,” he adds, rifling through the stack of books. “Tell me if you’ve read these – _Fairy Tales and Stories, Hymns of Madness and Despair, Physiology of the Witcher –_ ooh Geralt, do you think they’ll have an explanation for your massive–” 

“ _Fairy Tales and Stories_ sounds like a good start,” Geralt cuts in, his mouth twitching with a smile he refuses to let show.

“Right,” Jaskier says, grinning down at his book. Pratima watches them both curiously from their corner.

Time shifts around them as they read. Outside, the sun inches further and further down towards the distant horizon. Geralt glances up from his book once in a while to see Jaskier scribbling notes down in the book he uses to compose, while Pratima keeps sighing and looking out at the view rather than at their book. 

“This book suggests Melitele is the most powerful goddess in the Nordling pantheon. Do you think Sedna had it right that she died?” Geralt asks, after a while, if only to give himself a break from reading more dry paragraphs. The author was Nilfgaardian, it seemed, and damned the Northerners for their savagery at every turn of the page.

“She said she vanished, not that she was dead,” Jaskier replies. “Perhaps she’ll turn up and save us all.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt echoes.

“I’ve always thought Melitele was a doppler,” Pratima says excitedly, clearly looking for an excuse not to read anymore. “You know – young girl, woman, _and_ crone? I know only one kind of thing that can be all of those at once,” they say, grinning.

“Well,” Jaskier says, thinking. “You know, I don’t believe it’s beyond the realm of possibility for dopplers to be her distant descendants. We are assuming everything Sedna said is true – if it is, perhaps she could polymorph, and passed that ability on to others.”

“Dopplers are just dopplers,” Geralt says, turning another page. “Not like you’re going to suggest kikimores are the daughters of Lilit.”

“Kikimores, no. Djinn, perhaps.”

“Don’t talk to me about djinn,” Geralt mutters darkly, and Jaskier holds up his book in front of his face to hide his raucous, silent laughter.

“What’s wrong with djinn?” Pratima asks, confused.

“Oh nothing,” Jaskier grins. “Geralt’s just not getting any, these days.”

“Oh,” Pratima says, eyes wide. “Did someone curse you to never fuck again?”

Jaskier bursts into laughter again. “Ha, gods, no, more like he cursed himself,” he says, in between giggles.

“Half of this these religions are irrelevant,” Geralt continues, ignoring them. “Coram Agh Tera was made up a charismatic merchant around a century ago. Vesemir told me dealing with the ‘Cult of the Lionheaded Spider’ was a nightmare, they were fanatical imbeciles who got aroused inflicting suffering on other people.”

Jaskier shudders. “I'm utterly grateful there’s not a giant spider god out there we have to go and negotiate with, then. I have had enough of enormous spider monsters after following you around for the last few decades.”

Pratima gives them an odd, curious look again, but says nothing.

“Why do the Northerners have _so many gods_ ,” Geralt sighs. “Listen to this; ‘ _One of the most mysterious of the Nordling’s pantheon is a deity of horses, whose true name is not known. Known only as ‘The Great Horse,’ sometimes known as ‘Epona’ in Toussaint, it is said he will help to save the world from destruction along with his master, who shall ride into the twilight and pluck the Immortal Rose from darkness, the resulting impact of which shall rid the world of evil’._ Suppose we better go looking up every horse in the Continent then, just in case one can tell us about the Blight,” Geralt says, turning to the next page after that.

“What’s the Immortal Rose?” Pratima asks, fiddling with the corner of their book where the leather binding is coming apart.

“Oh, it’s a poetic term,” Jaskier says, enthusiastic to have an excuse to discuss metaphor. “Not a mythological one, really. Refers to a great and perfect beauty, or the legacy of human knowledge, or – well I suppose I’ve heard it used to refer to many things, including a woman’s cu–” he sees Pratima and reconsiders, “–uh, bits.”

“Thank you, Jaskier, very helpful,” Geralt mutters.

“This could be you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, pointing at his page. “‘ _Then the soothsayer spake thus to the witcher: 'This counsel I shall give you: don hobnailed boots and take an iron staff. Walk in your hobnailed boots to the end of the world, tap the road in front of you with the staff, and let your tears fall. Go through fire and water, do not stop, do not look back. And when your boots are worn out, when your iron staff is worn down, when the wind and the sun have dried your eyes such that not a single tear will fall from them, then you will find what you are searching for, what you love, at the end of the world. Perhaps.’_ Oh wait, here’s another part on the next page - _‘And the witcher walked through fire and water, never looking back. But he took neither hobnailed boots nor a staff. He took only his witcher's sword. He obeyed not the words of the soothsayer. And rightly so, for she was wicked._ ’ Not much of a moral then, is it, except don’t listen to strange old woman, which in fairness is a more useful moral than most–”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, absorbed in his book again.

“–If we run out of ideas, we’ll just send you off to the edge of the map with hobnailed boots and an iron staff then. Glad we agree. Hello, Geralt, what have you found that’s so interesting?”

“Page on Kreve, Thunder-God, the one Sedna mentioned we might have a chance at finding,” Geralt says. “Most of it I already know – that they fight against what they consider evil – but I wasn’t aware their cult had fallen in with the Eternal Fire. I wonder if that means we’ll find him in Novigrad.”

“Right, except we don’t know that Kreve himself has the same views as his followers,” Jaskier counters. “Sedna said he was trying to forget who he was – I doubt he’d go somewhere where lots of his worshippers are walking the streets.”

“Well, all Sedna gave us was that he liked pleasures of the flesh, and there isn’t exactly a shortage of brothels in the Continent,” Geralt sighs. “Wait, this one is promising – Lilvani, goddess of the moon, things we know already – but this book says she herself built a temple in East Velen, near the village of Toderas.”

“We could try,” Jaskier says dubiously. “Sedna said only gods that were stronger than she would know more, and Sedna has thousands of sailors that worship her – Lilvani’s worshippers barely exist anymore.”

“We don’t know that the power of a god is tied to the power of worship they receive,” Geralt replies, “But I will admit, I feel like all of this is pointless. We could try searching for Morrigan, Goddess of War and Phantoms, in the fields of Velen. We could look for Nehaleni, the Goddess of Luck and Fate,” Geralt continues, his tone growing more strained by the minute, “or Verna the Merciful, or Loki, the God of Mischief. But it’s possible, too, that none of them know a useful thing about the Blight and all of them are just as helpless as Sedna. Or are already dead. And while we’re on this wild chase for knowledge that may or may not exist from a god that may or may not exist, people are _dying._ ”

Geralt realises he has crumpled the topmost pages on the book in his lap with his fist, and hastily smooths them over.

“You have to have faith,” Pratima says simply. “You found a goddess already, didn’t you? Believe in Destiny,” they add, while Jaskier silently mouths ‘No, no, no, no,’ and waves his hands around desperately in an attempt to stop them.

“If Destiny exists, it can get fucked,” Geralt growls at Pratima, his golden eyes flashing dangerously.

Jaskier hides his head in his hands. “Um,” he says, in a desperate attempt to change the topic, and casts about wildly for a distraction. “Oh look, a book on ballads! I love ballads!”

He topples over the tower of books in his haste to get out the one he has spotted, and Geralt and Pratima both wince as the books tumble to the table and floor. A few loose pages float gently about, torn free from their bindings.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Jaskier says nervously. A leaf of paper lands atop his head, and Geralt feels his mouth twitch with a smile again despite himself.

“Well, my book is _so_ boring,” Pratima says suddenly. “I mean, all this stuff is interesting, sure, but the author can’t write a sentence shorter than half a page, and it’s filled with the most complicated words I don’t understand!”

“Oh, is that one of Adam Nivelle’s?” Jaskier says, turning his head sideways and squinting to read the name on the spine. “Yes, he’s like that – he wrote a lot of the readings for one of my courses at university. Bit of a racist, too. Just skim the pages and pick out anything that looks remotely useful, it’s what I did.”

Geralt watches as Jaskier helps Pratima parse Nivelle’s lengthy paragraphs over their shoulder, and finds himself oddly content. The afternoon sun is shining straight onto his face, and he’s warmer than he’s felt in a long time.

A while later, he realises he’s fallen asleep, and hears Jaskier’s voice singing quietly. He keeps his eyes shut, enjoying the sound of the bard’s voice and the feeling of the soft velvet armchair he’s sitting on.

“ _And the Gods danced and danced around,  
As their bodies tumbled to the ground,  
And the great silver Dragon slept,  
As the mountains groaned, and the clouds wept,_

_And the Great Sun burned bright as steel,  
As wind, fire, and wave came to heel,  
But when the world looked at last to cease,  
Prayers brought about a lasting peace._

–At least, I think that’s how it goes. It’s not like there’s any music written down to check against, but I’ve heard it once or twice from other bards. Bit unpopular in these parts, what with it being a translation of a Nilfgaardian religious chant.”

Geralt opens his eyes, and sees Jaskier sitting beside Pratima’s chair, the doppler enrapt by the bard. Dust motes swirl through the air of the library, illuminated by the setting afternoon sun. Geralt feels – peaceful. At home, almost, well-rested and content in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Jaskier and the doppler are bathed in the warm hues of the sunset, making them look as though they were fairies rendered in an old painting.

“Ah, awake I see, White Wolf. Was your nap restful? Are your muscles rejuvenated?”

“Fuck you, Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, lazily. His voice comes out sounding far more contented and languorous than he quite intended.

“Um,” Pratima says, blinking very rapidly as their eyes dart between them. “I should probably... get back, actually, in case they miss me for the evening meal.”

“’Course,” Geralt nods. Then, seeing the poorly-concealed dejection upon the doppler's face, he adds, “You can help us again tomorrow, if you like.”

Pratima face transforms entirely, as they beam with joy. “I’d love to! Thank you!” They bow to Geralt and Jaskier, and exit the room in a rushed flurry.

“Hope they remembered to change into the sorceress on the way downstairs,” Geralt murmurs. “Gods, is this how the nobility live? I’ve done nothing but laze about for weeks, and yet I find myself even more tired than usual.” He stretches in his chair, yawning. Across from him, Jaskier goes slightly red and turns back to his book on ballads.

“I – believe so,” Jaskier says haltingly. “Can get quite boring. Suppose that’s why I ran away to be a bard, and all.”

“The thrill-seeking Viscount de Lettenhove,” Geralt says, regarding his friend with amusement. He picks up his own book again and begins at the open page on the Cult of Lebioda, and frowns as he reads down the page.

“Jaskier,” he says, looking up only to find his friend’s eyes darting away, as if he had been caught staring at Geralt. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier laughs, a little tinnily. “Just, uh. Startled me. Got lost in my thoughts, composing a new ballad. What is it?”

“Have we got Lebioda’s book? You know the one. Was wondering if there were any prophecies in there that might be useful.”

“The _Good Book of Prophet Lebioda’s Wisdom_?” Jaskier replies, stroking his quickly-growing beard. “Has to be around here somewhere. A classic, that. Did you hear the story about how they got his sacred bones out after the dragon ate them? Just waited around for the beast to defecate, and sorted through every dropping,” Jaskier laughs. “Happened near here, actually, that’s why they have that great statue of him down in the city.”

“Mm,” Geralt says. “Most of his prophecies came true, as I recall. Won’t hinder our cause to check and see if he wrote anything about the Blight.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, “Although I haven’t seen that book in all the weeks we’ve been here. I’d remember if we had. Odd that it’s missing from the collection. Uh, maybe you could ask Yenne- Triss about it?”

Geralt sighs. “Yes, fine. I’ll ask.”

“Well, it’s just about time for our nightly war council meeting,” Jaskier remarks, looking pointedly at the last sliver of the sun’s golden orb disappearing on the horizon. “So at least you’ll have something to ask her. She always looks so disapproving when we turn up with nothing.”

Geralt glares down at the book in his lap, as though willing it to provide some new, useful information. When none leaps out at him, he sighs.

 _Time for my favourite part of the day,_ he thinks grimly. _Nothing like dining with a group of women who want to kill you, or fuck you, or in some cases, both._

“Oh come on, sourpuss, it won’t be _that_ bad,” Jaskier says bracingly, stretching in his chair and yawning. “Although I admit, I’d much rather take our evening meal up here. It’s so tranquil, don’t you think? I feel at peace among these old books.”

“It’s certainly quiet,” Geralt agrees, looking out to the last fading glimmer of the sun upon the horizon. _So quiet you might forget the entire world teeters on the edge of a fall it can never recover from._ He considers the edge of the horizon, and the colour of the sky as it fades to purple dusk. _Perhaps it is the will of this world. Perhaps the Elder races have grown too numerous, and the world is shaking off all its foreign parasites until only its original inhabitants remain._

“Coming, Geralt?” Jaskier calls. Geralt turns back and sees the bard has stood up from his chair, and is looking at the witcher expectantly. His eyes are filled with warmth, and Geralt feels a new surge of determination flare in his soul.

 _No. We will stop this thing._ After all, the races that settled the Continent had been refugees, no different to any other. And even if their ancestors had done some wrong, those who lived in this age had not. The majority were good, innocent people, and some force was threatening their lives. Whatever monster lay at the end of this Blight, Geralt would fight it.

_And if that means fighting the world, or even the universe itself – so be it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the similarities of the plague content, this fic was drafted back in January. I know that times are tough for everyone and I hope that this fic helps people with escapism, rather than recalling any unpleasantness of reality. Well, at the very least – I hope this fic makes the end of the world seem a little less mundane. It’s more exciting with magic and prophecies than with incompetent politicians.
> 
> I’m using some poetic license with Ban Ard since there’s almost no information about it. Almost all the books referenced in this chapter are canon titles from the books or games; the tale of the ‘Soothsayer and the Witcher’ is a direct excerpt from _Baptism of Fire_. Similarly, most of the religion referenced is part of the Witcher canon.
> 
> Please let me know if you notice any inconsistencies, spelling errors or otherwise in the fic - I find myself with less and less time to edit as semester marches on, so if I make a mistake feel free to yell at me about it! 😊


	12. Feainn - Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this chapter contains some spoilers for the books and games, particularly around Triss’s character.

Dinner is always the most interminable part of the day at Ban Ard – and that is no small accomplishment, as Geralt now spends most of his waking hours in the company of dusty, dry tomes.

It is downright impressive how _boring_ the Grand Council have made their meetings. They seem determined to hold up the appearance of normality and control, despite the varied crises unfolding across the Continent. The sorceresses of the Lodge comprise at least half of those allowed within the fifth-floor dining hall, their beautiful outfits only a little more rumpled than usual. The rest of the Council’s membership is comprised of those whom the sorceresses deem particularly important or powerful. High vampires sit alongside priests, and Northern witch- break bread with foreign princes.

 _Strange times make for stranger allies,_ Geralt thinks, watching a dark-skinned vampire drone on and on at Esralem of Winneburg without letting the sorceress get a word in edgewise.

If the Council upheld the appearance of normality, the chamber they were in certainly didn’t. From the ground to head height, the dining hall appeared as any other one might find in the residence of a noble or king. Above head-height, however, it began to take on a strange, murky, misty quality. Purple gas swirled in the air, smelling faintly of incense. From the mist, the mages seemed to be able to summon images and maps with ease to hover above their heads. The first time they had entered the dining hall, weeks and weeks ago, Triss had conjured miniature versions of the two of them from the mists. The figures had remarkable detail, even more realistic and dimensional than a painting.

“This is amazing!” Jaskier had exclaimed in awe, as their miniatures had stared back at them with eerie, expressionless stares.

“This is nothing,” Triss had said wistfully, “compared to the grand war chamber we used in Aretuza.”

Geralt watches now as the mist fluctuates with colours and half-formed shapes. He assumes the abstract, shifting quality is due to the distracted chatter of everyone around them. As usual, the witcher and bard had been placed at the far end of the table, feeling, as Jaskier had once described ‘as though they were two children allowed a seat at the table, but not allowed to contribute to discussion on fear of punishment by a strict father.’

The food is brought through the hall by a steady stream of refugee servers, who look exhausted and irritated at having to carry each platter up from the kitchens. In the first few days, the food produced for the mages had still been sumptuous; glazed chickens, fluffy bread, and the vegetables still crisp and crunchy. Two weeks later, however, and even the mages had fallen to the order of the day; the meat was stringy and thin, the vegetables soft, and the bread seemed to have been padded out with something other than flour. Only the wine remained exquisite – whichever king’s cellar the mages were drawing from was apparently still well supplied. As a consequence of this, however, those seated in the dining hall drank more than they ate, and the Grand Council dinners seemed to break down into chaotic bickering with increasing frequency.

Geralt drinks deeply from his own cup, and glares at one of the portraits hanging on the wall. He wonders how much they could sell the gilded frame for – that is, if gold will still have any value in the coming months when food supplies begin to run out entirely. 

“Care for some more wine?” Triss says from beside him, interrupting his thoughts.

“Even the finest wine can grow stale if you grow too used to the taste of it,” Geralt complains, but holds his goblet out for a refill in spite of himself. “Every day we meet here and every day the Grand Council squabbles amongst itself, everyone claiming higher importance than everyone else. Nothing gets done. I’m tired of it.”

“Progress is being made,” Triss says confidently, and then lowers her voice. “Even if it’s being made behind closed doors. Philippa is doing her best, and doesn’t always do _her best_ with the full knowledge of the Council. She knows it’s unlikely they’ll make any useful decisions – it’s just good politics, to make people feel important, and affirm their loyalty to us.”

“Are you saying the Lodge just does what it pleases anyway?” Jaskier says, incredulous. “What’s the point of debating action in here then?”

“Sharing information, and keeping a lot of important and powerful people in the same room where we can keep an eye on them,” Triss murmurs, refilling Jaskier’s goblet. “I’m sorry I have to sit so far away. Believe me, I’d much rather be talking to you than Esralem,” she adds, making a face. Geralt stares down to the other end of the table to where Triss’s seat sits empty next to Yennefer’s. Yennefer has done her best to ignore Geralt in public, and he’s quite sure their seating arrangements are due to her designs, not the Council’s.

“At least you have this wine to get you through it,” Geralt replies moodily. “I admit, that sorceress always acts as though someone has put salt into her morning milk.”

“That’s one sorceress that hasn’t asked to sleep with you yet, then,” Jaskier mumbles quietly into his drink. Geralt’s hearing still picks up on it over the general chatter and clanking of cutlery.

“It _is_ good wine, isn’t it?” Triss says, swilling her wine with relish. Either she hadn’t heard Jaskier, or, like Geralt, was choosing to ignore his comment. “Although it always gives me rather vivid, disturbing dreams. Yennefer’s allergic to this wine, too – it makes her go all red and puffy around the eyes. Philippa probably requested it for that reason.”

“What are they squabbling about now?”

Triss laughs shortly. “Too long to get into, and probably not important. I can’t stay here forever, I have to get back to my place – but, as always – I wanted to ask if there was any new information you’ve discovered from your research.”

“No,” Geralt replies, “Although – we were wondering after a book. Seems to be missing from the collection for no discernible reason, and we thought we might look up prophecies for this year, in case there was anything of use.”

“Which prophet were you after?” Triss asks curiously. “The library won’t have them all, but I’d imagine it’s certainly one of the biggest collections on the Continent…”

“Prophet Lebioda. We can’t find him anywhere in the collection,” Jaskier says, fiddling with his goblet and running his finger around its rim.

Triss frowns. “The _Good Book_? _That_ shouldn’t be hard to find. I’ll have a look around, see where it’s gotten to.”

“Oh, and,” Jaskier calls out, as she makes to return to her end of the table, “There’s. A, uh. Girl.”

“A doppler,” Geralt interrupts.

“A doppler,” Jaskier amends. “Who would really like to set up camp in the crypts. It, ah - might cause something of a commotion in the camp, if she was to return to her natural form while others are around. She’s been very helpful,” he adds hastily, seeing the doubtful expression on Triss’s face. “Helped us in the library today.”

“Dopplers _are_ sweet-natured,” Geralt remarks nonchalantly, hoping he never recounted to Triss tales of the handful of dopplers he’s killed for serious offences.

Triss looks at both of them for a moment, and then rolls her eyes. “I’ll talk to Anisse,” she says, and then continues, “but next time you want a favour, you better have something good to bargain with. People have more important concerns these days then sleeping arrangements for dopplers.”

“We’ll try,” Geralt replies vaguely, distracted suddenly by an argument happening at the other end of the table. He tunes out the conversation around him, focusing on the strands of their voices and the movement of their lips.

“And the _only_ reason we are keeping them around is for their energy. They are _useless_ to us if they are _dead,_ Jakor,” he sees a man near Yennefer exclaim. He has exquisite tailored vest, all in gold, which complements the golden tones of his brown skin. A sorcerer or a noble, Geralt thinks. A very wealthy man, in either case.

“They are a catastrophe waiting to happen, Ismuth,” the other man declares. This man is pale, raven-haired, and wrapped in the black clothing of Nilfgaard. “Perhaps in Zangvebar, things are different. Here, collecting a group of angry half-baked mages and creatures of ill fortune in the same room will have the same result as if they were starving peasants.”

“And what result is that?” Ismuth asks. Geralt cannot tell his tone through the confusion of his accent and the noise of the dining hall.

“A bloody uprising,” Jakor says. “They’re discontent with how we lord over them, telling them what to do and not why they do it.”

“You think it would be better to tell them _we_ don’t know what we’re doing either?” Ismuth chides. “Come now, Jakor. Better for the general population to believe we have some plan, some control over things. Without that – anarchy. Mayhem.”

They continue to bicker, but Geralt’s attention is distracted again as he notices Triss now huddling together with Yennefer. Yennefer draws a map of some kind using the mist, and Triss nods.

 _Wonder what that’s about,_ Geralt thinks. He sees Yennefer march determinedly out the door, and drains the last of his wine. Wine that exacerbates his anger, and confusion, and muffles the voice in his head telling him she wants to be left alone.

He rises from his seat, and follows her.

“Wait – wait. Yen,” Geralt says loudly, nearly sprinting out into the corridor to catch up. “Yen, please.”

Yennefer shoots him a mistrustful look, and then begins striding as quickly as she can away from him.

“I don’t know what you think I’ve done–”

“Oh, what _I_ think you’ve done–”

“I don’t know what I _have done_ ,” Geralt amends. “But if you do not convey it to me, I cannot fix it. I want to sleep in your bed again, I want to talk with you as we used to. Ever since we arrived here you’ve treated me like a stranger with no explanation, and I – believe you owe me the reason why.”

She doesn’t answer, but her lengthy strides come to a sudden halt. He stops too, a few feet behind her. Distantly, he hears Jaskier shouting his name in alarm from further along the corridor. He ignores the noise, and forges on.

“Yen. After everything - you owe me that much.”

He doesn’t beg, but it’s a near thing.

Yennefer turns to him at last, and says haltingly, “Look, I…” she trails off, and curses under her breath. She only locks eyes with him for a moment before looking up to the ceiling in frustration.

“Geralt, it’s… complicated, and honestly the fault does not entirely lie with you this time – unusual, I know,” she huffs, a small smile on her face.

All of the explanations Geralt had expected come to an abruptly crash together in his mind, and dissolve entirely.

“Then – Yen, are you – being threatened, or–”

“Be quiet for a moment, Geralt, or I’ll give up on trying to explain anything at all,” Yennefer says exasperatedly. “I cannot explain it in a way that would satisfy you. Oh, I just – I’m just thinking, about a lot of things. And I don’t want to cloud my thinking by being around you right now. And some of the things I’m thinking about – they’re not things I can _talk_ with you about.”

“Why not?” Geralt demands.

Yennefer glares at him. “Not _everything_ in my life is about or involves you, Geralt,” she snaps. “And some secrets aren’t mine to divulge. Just give me time and space to think. Go find a whore in the city, if you’re so bothered by it.”

She storms off to her chambers, leaving Geralt fuming. “Fine,” he mutters. “Fine. See if I don’t do exactly that.”

“Geralt, you’re not going to clamber down the mountain path in the dark,” Jaskier says insistently beside him.

 _He must have caught up at some point_ , Geralt thinks, realising once again Yennefer had blinded his usually exceptional senses to his surroundings. 

“Come on, let’s get you to our rooms, and you can ask Triss to help you visit the city tomorrow if you like,” Jaskier adds, pulling on his shirt gently.

Geralt turns his glare on Jaskier, who doesn’t flinch, but instead gives back a perfectly communicated look of _you’re being a child, go to sleep, and you’ll feel better in the morning._

“Why can’t she just _tell_ me what’s going on?” Geralt mutters darkly, as they walk towards the landing. “Half the times we separate, she won’t give me a reason for it, but at least all of those times I didn’t have to live in the same fucking castle as her.”

“ _Her love’s as unfair as a crook,_ ” Jaskier sings quietly. “I’m sure she’s doing her best, Geralt. Some people keep secrets even from the people closest to them, because it would hurt the ones they love.”

“ _You_ don’t keep secrets,” Geralt says mulishly. Jaskier chooses not to reply to that, busy humming the rest of his song. The tune triggers something in Geralt’s memory, and he puzzles over it as they make their way back to their chamber.

“Ah – Jaskier! The song you were singing when I awoke in the library this evening. What was it about, again?”

Jaskier strokes his beard, resting one arm on the other. “Hmm. _The Victory of Our Great Sun Against the Evil False Gods,_ I believe is the official translation of that title. It’s about the Sun God triumphing over all the others, ruling over all the elements and people of the world, and granting mercy only to those who pray.”

“There was something in it about a dragon,” Geralt says, pacing up and down the room. “A silver dragon.”

“Well, yes,” Jaskier says slowly. “But – I mean, first of all, the song is meant to be historical – and even if it wasn’t, there’s no silver dragon that I know of, and it doesn’t even do anything in the song. It just sleeps.”

“We thought there was no such thing as a gold dragon, before we met Borch,” Geralt reminds him. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be looking for gods, but for sleeping dragons.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says, pondering. “I’d argue it’s more likely the ‘silver dragon’ is likely an army of some kind. That’s more in line with traditional metaphor – but,” he adds, noticing Geralt’s look of annoyance, “We can certainly mention it to Triss.”

“Dragons hiding as people, gods hiding as people,” Geralt says, agitated. “Gods, it would be easier if everything just looked the way it was. Dopplers are hard enough. I have no idea how old Pratima is. Could be sixty for all I know.”

“I keep treating her like a child,” Jaskier agrees, “And I probably wouldn’t if she was in an old man’s body instead, but I can’t help it. You’d think after everything I’ve been through with you, I’d be a little more wary.”

“Dopplers are usually harmless,” Geralt says, stripping the last of his clothing away and getting under his luxurious coverlet. “With a few exceptions, yes, but I think we can trust this one.”

“Hope so,” Jaskier says darkly. “Don’t want some doppler running around the Continent imitating me for coin and giving my performances a bad name.”

* * *

When Geralt sleeps that night, his mind conjures a dream of a rowdy, crowded alehouse. There is nothing particularly out of place in the dream, except for that there are two Jaskiers playing at either end of the tavern.

Each of the Jaskiers start shrieking their songs more and more loudly over the top of each other, the melodies grinding together discordantly. The noise gets so bad that Geralt’s head starts ringing.

“ _Stop_!” Geralt yells, slamming his hands over his ears.

They both cease singing immediately, turning to stare at him. Geralt blinks, and all the people in the room seem to vanish, the tavern becoming somehow smaller. He thinks, vaguely, that they must have paid for a room upstairs. Did he pay enough for three people? No, surely he only need pay for the room – the number of Jaskiers would not incur an extra charge–

The Jaskiers suddenly converge, hissing and spitting and swearing at each other. Geralt cries out in alarm as one bites viciously into the other’s neck. The second Jaskier screams in pain.

He tears the twinned versions of his friend apart, only to have them both dissolve like sand beneath his fingers. One doppler morphs into Yennefer; the other morphs into Triss. Both of the sorceresses are clad only in their undergarments. Both glare at him with equal ire.

“Which is it, Geralt?” Yennefer snaps. “Her, or me?”

“Why do I have to choose?” Geralt asks, in a voice that both is and isn’t his own.

The two women exchange a look.

“Perhaps you don’t,” Yennefer says sweetly.

“Yes,” Triss says. “Why do things the hard way? We’ve always loved each other, you’re in love with us…”

“There’s no point in fighting it,” Yennefer concludes.

Geralt blinks, and suddenly, he’s lying on his back, fully naked and exposed. His hands are cuffed to the headboard of a rather comfortable bed. The inn room has been upgraded to a luxurious suite, decorated with golden and red velvet that hands from every surface.

“Er,” he says bemusedly, while the two women smile wickedly at him and creep closer. He’s too aroused by this turn of events to notice anything amiss, until Yennefer pulls out a long, sharp knife.

“Wait,” Geralt says, panicked, “Wait a moment–”

“Begone, vile fiends!” Jaskier’s voice rings out, and the two women hiss and turn around. Jaskier has appeared at the doorway, brandishing Geralt’s silver sword. “Back, I say!”

The dopplers shift again, and Jaskier cuts their heads off clean from their body.

“Honestly, Geralt,” the bard says. “Can’t do anything without me, I see.”

“Not in the mood, Jaskier.”

“Well, I sure am. What did you play? ‘Tame the fiend’? Or was it, ‘free the prince’?”

Jaskier is staring at Geralt’s still prominent erection, and Geralt feels himself flush with anger. “Jaskier!”

“Alright, alright. Sorry,” Jaskier says hastily. “Don’t often see you like this. Couldn’t resist.”

Jaskier walks around to Geralt’s side of the bed, and leans down to uncuff Geralt’s hands from the headboard. His head is right besides Geralt’s own, his fingers dancing lightly on Geralt’s wrist as he unwinds the cuffs.

His voice is strangely rough as he murmurs, “Oh, Geralt. How little you know of women.”

Geralt turns his head sideways, the movement bringing his nose less than an inch from Jaskier’s own. They stare at each other for a moment, and Geralt feels the familiar tug of something important.

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks, because he has walked down this corridor in his dreams so many times and yet _never_ had the door open.

Jaskier smiles, and leans forward to whisper in his ear.

“Did you really think you could have _both_?”

Geralt bolts awake, and sees the faintest light of dawn brushing against the stone walls. His shirt is drenched through with sweat, and he’s as hard as he’s ever been. But reality asserts itself, his pulse and breathing slows, and he soon falls back into unconsciousness.

* * *

This time, he dreams of a beautiful woman with ashen hair. He runs after her, through a field of shifting flowers. Her head is crowned with a woven ring of red vines.

 _Ciri?_ he thinks. But her shape and gait are different, her hair a different cut.

He follows the woman, until the flowers wilt and turn to dirt beneath his feet. Then the ground frosts over, and hardens into ice. Snow is falling now, thicker and thicker, whiting out the landscape in a blizzard. He nearly slips, and looks down to correct his footing; when he looks up again, the woman has vanished. Still, he wades forward, even as the snow slows his movements and soaks through his pants and boots.

There is something emerging in the distance – a shining, golden pavilion. Geralt hastens towards it, taking shelter within its grated panels. He is cold, and getting colder. He casts around for something to light a fire with, but the stone floor is empty – except for a strangely shaped pile of snow in the centre.

He brushes at the snow, and finds two necklaces with their chains intertwined. One pendant is a silver ankh, and the other–

The other is a witcher’s medallion. Yet Geralt knows as soon as he touches it that it is not his own.

A voice comes to him as his thumb strokes the wolf’s silver nose.

_For every wish, a price must be paid. The greater the wish, the greater the price. I only wish my fate had not been one chosen for the offering._

When he wakes again, a rush of immense sadness threatens to choke him. But the tidal wave is gone just as soon as it came, and the memory of his dreams wash away with it.

* * *

The next morning, Geralt gets up later than usual. His head is pounding with the remnants of a hangover, and the echoes of strangely solemn feelings that weigh heavy on his heart. He decides to forgo his usual training exercises in the castle courtyard, and instead makes his way to breakfast in the entrance hall. Almost as soon as he enters, he notices the atmosphere changing, mages and creatures alike shooting him dark looks as he walks towards the serving tables.

Years of hostile encounters have taught him not to let his confusion or discomfort show. Instead, he takes his time to ladle soup into a bowl and select a decently sized chunk of bread from the dwindling supply.

As he turns back around, he spots Jaskier and Pratima waving frantically to him from a corner, and wades delicately through the camp towards them. He hears someone spitting behind him, and grits his teeth.

“Did something happen that I’m not aware of?” Geralt asks as he sits down in an empty chair beside the other two.

Pratima sighs. “Apparently last night a mage was killed, but nobody saw who did it,” they whisper. “And most of the people here think it was you.”

“Naturally,” Geralt says, grimacing.

“I don’t think that, of course,” Pratima adds, breaking off a piece of crumbly bread and dipping it into their cup of watered-down milk. “I reckon ‘e ‘ot wha’ wa’ comi’ to ‘im,” they go on, chewing on their bread as they speak.

Jaskier winces, and says, “You know you really shouldn’t chew with your – how old exactly _are_ you, Pratima?”

Pratima grins. “Older than you think, younger than you fear,” they say happily.

Geralt redirects their focus to where it’s needed. “This mage, he was a bad person?”

“Yea’ ‘e ‘as – ooh, ‘orry Jaskier– forgo’” they swallow loudly, and continue, “–he was in prison for murdering some petty thieves, horrible stuff. Experimented on them with dark magic, until their bodies couldn’t take anymore. But I guess the sorceresses are desperate,” they shrug, and wolf down another piece of bread.

Geralt and Jaskier exchange a look of concern, but before Geralt can say anything, he is tapped on the shoulder by a large, looming man with an ugly face and armour that has been shredded through by some enormous claw.

“Heard you killed Havon last night,” the man booms, raising an axe. “Reckon that’s not fair. You lot up in the towers think you’re better than us, but he was our friend in here and got us lots of stuff them sorceresses wouldn’t. Not right that you just killed him without a trial.”

“I didn’t touch him,” Geralt says slowly, staring up at the man unblinkingly.

“Now look here, you filthy mutant,” the man says, giving off a fine spray of spit onto Geralt’s face as he speaks, “You’re an unwanted child who thinks he’s special because some old inverted degenerate took you in and gave you a swor– _argh!_ ”

The man is propelled back onto the table behind him by – to Geralt’s surprise – Jaskier, who has thrown a steaming hot cup of tea into the man’s face.

“Don’t you _ever_ talk to my friend that way,” he says, shaking, and then raises his voice. “If any one of you thinks you are _half_ the man Geralt of Rivia, hero of the Continent is, then please, let me know. And for what it’s worth, I was with him _all night,_ so I have no idea who touched Havon, but it wasn’t him.”

He glowers at the people around them as if to take on any challengers, and when people start turning away and murmuring to themselves, he sinks down into his chair, stabbing his fruit mix violently with a fork.

“You do realise,” Pratima says sardonically, “That you made it sound like Geralt was fucking you right through until dawn?”

Jaskier’s face turns the same shade of pink as his buttoned vest. “Watch your language,” he mutters.

Geralt, on the other hand, smirks. “And who said,” he says, drawing out the joke, “ _I_ was doing the fucking?”

Jaskier drops his fork to the table with a clatter, and stares up at Geralt. His face goes through a complicated series of emotions, and settles after a moment on amused. “Yes, Geralt’s heard all about my sexual exploits,” he quips, “He wouldn’t rest until he got a taste of this cock. ‘Oh, Jaskier, please, I am so empty without your gargantuan–’”

“And to think, it was only yesterday you were telling me how impressive _my_ cock was,” Geralt drawls. “How quickly things change.”

“That’s not wh- I,” Jaskier stutters, and Geralt’s mouth twitches with suppressed laughter.

Pratima suddenly declares that they need more fruit for the table, and Geralt and Jaskier are left alone with the weight of Geralt’s joke. There’s a strange silence for a moment, while Jaskier clenches and unclenches his jaw.

“You – ah. You’re okay with it?” Jaskier asks in a strained voice, fiddling with his half-eaten bread. “The – men. Fucking each other.”

Geralt frowns, and wonders why his joke made Jaskier so obviously uncomfortable. It wasn’t like Jaskier to balk at bawdy humour, but then again, Geralt had never made a joke of this _particular_ tenor before.

_He did grow up in the nobility, after all._

“I – have met a few men who – enjoyed the company of other men,” Geralt says carefully, trying to plan out his words in advance. “Many soldiers in the army, for example. The sorcerers are known to, and many of the sorceresses favour the companionship of other women. In Gulet, recently – there was a man whose – _lover_ – had died. He seemed kind-hearted, and true in his devotion. I – you were talking of sex, not love – but, his love seemed as pure as anything I have seen between men and women.” Geralt realises he hasn’t looked at Jaskier once as he’s been speaking, and his eyes flicker back to his friend.

Jaskier looks poleaxed. “Right,” he says eventually. “Yes, that’s. Very noble of you.”

“You think them abnormal?” Geralt questions, concerned by his inability to read Jaskier’s expressions.

Jaskier seems to consider his answer carefully. “I think,” he says after a while, “that love itself is abnormal. You have seen spirits possess others – what if Yennefer’s spirit possessed a man? Would you not still love her then?”

Geralt winces at the thought of a tall, muscular Yennefer coming at him with a hairy chest and a crackling aura of lightning. “Haven’t really ever considered that,” Geralt replies truthfully. “Hope I don’t have to.”

“I think about it,” Jaskier confesses quietly. Before Geralt can follow that line of conversation, Pratima comes back to them waving about a plate of fruit excitedly and chattering about the way they were going to beat one of the mages in dice poker.

Geralt has a vague, irritating sense of déjà vu.

“Geralt!” he hears Triss’s voice ring out over the rabble of the breakfast hall. He looks up to see her familiar form, bright red hair and vivid green cloth. Among the refugees, she looks like the single living flower in a garden of withered plants.

She doesn’t bother to venture any closer, instead gesturing to him from afar.

“Should I come?” Jaskier asks through a mouthful of bread crusts.

Geralt shakes his head, and pushes his chair out behind him as he stands, the wooden legs jolting against the uneven stone floor. “Don’t bother. If I’m not back in an hour, take Pratima to the library. I’ll meet up with you again when I can.”

“As you wish,” Jaskier says, shrugging, eyeing Geralt’s full bowl of bread crusts enviously. Geralt flicks his eyes upwards in exasperation, and Jaskier grins and drags it across to his side of the table.

Geralt notices that something is off-balance about Triss when he approaches her, and then registers a moment later that she isn’t breathing very often, and when she does, it is with her mouth opening and closing slightly.

“If I can survive this stench, Triss, you surely can.”

“You’re used to it,” Triss says under her breath, “and nobody but a witcher would think to notice my breathing. If we had the resources to bathe and clothe them properly, believe me, it would be my first priority.”

She nods towards the staircase, and the two of them begin their ascent.

“What do you need my help with?”

“It’s a very important task,” Triss assures him.

“Triss.”

“It _is_ important, Geralt.”

“That will make a nice change from what you’ve been asking me to do for the last few weeks, then.”

Triss huffs out a breath of either amusement or exasperation. “You know, I would think that having an academic for a best friend, you’d appreciate the importance of scholarly work. But no, you think the sword _is_ mightier than the pen–”

“I’ll leave philosophising to the philosophers. Since when were you so well-acquainted with Jaskier’s work?”

“Well, we meet up in Novigrad every year for the annual Festival of Jilted Lovers, and complain about you. You have the largest table of spurned women in the whole city.”

“Very droll. Wait, Novigrad doesn’t really have–”

“ _No,_ of course not, although it’s not a bad idea. Could really bring the community together, having everyone bond over their shared romantic trauma.”

They pass the Wall Eye, and then a few corridors later Triss waves him towards a battered carpet on an otherwise empty wall. The colours of the tapestry have faded to a pale brown, but Geralt can make out a scene of several naked men and women lounging around a garden.

“Behind here. Lots of secret passageways in this place, you know. Part of the reason we don’t want the refugees coming up here. Get lost in the inner mazes, and you’re almost certain to walk straight into a magical trap.”

She lifts the tapestry off the wall, and gestures for Geralt to follow her. The witcher slides in to the tunnel behind, ducking his head to accommodate the low ceiling. The tunnel is surprisingly well-maintained compared to the rest of the castle, unnaturally so. Not a single cobweb can be seen along the walls, and the torches that light their way look as though they were put there yesterday.

“That tapestry is a barrier of some kind, isn’t it?” Geralt guesses.

Triss replies just as they reach a dark oak panelled door at the end of the tunnel. “You’re quick as always. Yes, it’s preservation magic, a mysterious, ancient spell. This tunnel hasn’t been touched by time at all. The carpet absorbs the ravages of time, while the chambers beyond are immune to its touch. Help me with this, would you?”

He grabs the handle and pulls it as hard as he can. The door inches forward, revealing a beautiful, enormous indoor garden, the flowers and leaves fully lit by the midday sun. The high, arched ceiling is made of glass, and an unseasonably warm air humidity surrounds the place. From wall to distant wall are rows and rows of bushes, trees and other plants, glistening a bright and splendid green that Geralt realises he has not seen in nature for some months now.

“So, if someone sick stayed in here,” Geralt says slowly, dragging the stiff door the rest of the way open with no small amount of effort, “would they be immortal?”

Triss smiles her exasperated smile. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to hide things from you, Geralt. There was a plan – if all else were to fail – that the most important sorceresses might retreat here, with the hope that they would be saved from the Blight.”

“Was?” Geralt asks, frowning.

“Making Ban Ard our base of operations has had many advantages in learning what we can about the Blight.” Triss gestures around at the greenery surrounding them. “Keira was in charge of this place, back when – when she was around. I’ve never seen her so happy, you know.”

Triss’s voice only tremors for a brief moment. She strokes the broad, flat leaf that sticks out from one of the potted plants beside her. The surface is dewy, and condensation follows the path of her finger.

“She was the one who noticed when the preservation spell started to fade, and the plants began to grow again. When she realised the plants would need looking after, she was terrified for them. Mages have held Ban Ard for centuries, and few are able to traverse the mountain path without magic. If the mages die out – well, these plants would die out too. All the effort gone into preserving the specimens in this room for naught.”

Triss’s smile is intact, but her eyes are now heavy with grief. “I think Keira was sadder about the plants dying out than she was about the mages going extinct. Perhaps it was easier for her to grapple with. She came to me crying, one day. I wanted to cry, too, but only because I knew that if this preservation spell was crumbling, that the spell that strings our bodies together – that preserves our flesh in our beautiful, immortal forms – those spells would crumble with far more ease. She was crying over plants, and I was only crying for myself.”

“I was sorry to hear she was killed,” Geralt says quietly. He thinks about embracing her, and yet, in the sunlight, she shimmers with something beyond his reach. He has no real place here, in this particular grief.

Triss shakes her head. “She was foolish. She was always foolish, and headstrong, and Philippa should have known better than to let her travel anywhere near that rabid king.”

The last word is said with a particular viciousness, her expression darkening into barely concealed malice. She is suddenly frightening, in a way that Geralt has only associated with Yennefer, and never Triss.

She catches herself, though, and her face softens into its usual gentle beauty once more.

“Through Keira looking after the plants in this place, through the refugees living here, through studying the shelves and shelves of books on phenomena in this world… we realised that the Blight was affecting everything in this world that was remotely changed by the Conjunction of the Spheres. It’s infecting all types of magic, new and old, and even affecting things that we hadn’t even _thought of_ as magic.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks sharply.

“That sorceresses might have more in common with werewolves than with humans. Well, at the moment all these things are nebulous. The Blight is showing us links within nature that we had never considered, pathways from the Sphere that illustrate the foundations of magic itself. The scholars at the Academy would be having the time of their lives if… well, if the Academy were still standing at all.”

Her gaze grows distant, and her hands drift from the leaves of the shrub to the bright pink flower in the middle that rises above the other branches of the plant.

“What is that?”

“A foreign species, from Zangvebar. The sorcerers used this place to preserve as many important species of plant and animal as they could, in case of a great cataclysm. In case of the White Frost. If the planet survived such a thing, perhaps one day people might be able to access this room, and bring back the life that the world lost.”

“Animals?” Geralt asks, looking around and peering past the greenery for the first time. On the shelves at the end of the room, he sees jars full of strange things trapped in liquid.

“Eggs, mostly. The sorcerers had the thought of embalming as many samples as they could. They tried petrifying some smaller animals, too, but I imagine they didn’t have enough room for a full row of bears and deer.”

“What about the intelligent races? Dwarves don’t lay eggs.”

Triss shrugs. “I think the assumption is that if someone finds this place, and can use it, they would have to be intelligent survivors.”

“I suppose,” Geralt says dubiously. He’s never given much thought to the elven prophecy of the White Frost, an eventual doom prophesised to take place hundreds of lifetimes after his own. But seeing preparations in place like this, he is suddenly struck by the loneliness and immense grief of such a thought – a world of ice, with no trace of civilisation left.

“I suppose it is lucky that the sorcerers built this, even if it is this Blight that will end us and not a coming age of ice and snow.”

Triss holds up her fingers to her eyes, and rubs them together. Geralt can see the finest traces of pollen on her skin.

“There’s a theory that’s what the Blight is. That someone has simply found a way to bring about the White Frost sooner than it was meant to. Of course, there’s no proof that’s what’s happening – for all that’s wrong with the world, we have not yet seen the temperature fall dramatically, or the streets pile with unseasonable snow.”

“What do _you_ think it is?” Geralt asks cautiously.

Triss lowers her hand, and looks at him properly for the first time in a while. “I don’t know. None of us do, and it terrifies us. We have absolutely nothing to go on, no basis on which to theorise an answer. If we did, I imagine we’d be halfway to a solution.”

Geralt grunts, and decides to change the topic. “So, did you bring me here just to show me this place?”

Triss smiles. “No, I really did need your help. Unfortunately we mages are quite weak now, so when it comes to lifting something rather heavy…”

Geralt looks at her incredulously. “You want me to do heavy labour? _That’s_ your terribly important job?”

“Well, it’s terribly important cargo,” Triss says, smiling. “I need to take some of these plants to the upper floors to see if we can use them to formulate a cure. And I don’t trust just _anyone_ with carrying irreplaceable, potentially world-saving plants, you know.”

Looking around, Geralt can see why both Keira and Triss would value the things here so highly. There is something sacred about this quiet, glass-topped chamber, and the life within in. It reminds him of an ancient elven cathedral he had once stood in on the far fields of Lyria, a structure that had long since fallen to ruin.

“If you take them from this room, won’t they die?” Geralt says, frowning. “Why move them? Why not make the potions here?”

Triss rolls her eyes. “‘Why not make the potions here.’ _Honestly_. You witchers have no appreciation for the need for freshness of your ingredients. And to answer your question, the plants are going to die here regardless if we don’t fix this. The preservation spell will wear down, same as every other spell. The person who cast it meant for the magic to never fade, but – well. They did not account for this Blight.”

“A hard thing to predict, even for the prophets, it seems.”

Triss’s expression has resumed its natural state of exasperation, although now it seems directed at something other than Geralt.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? A thousand people spouting so-called prophecies and they miss something this enormous. I know most of them were crooks, but still… I truly thought your research would yield _something._ ”

Geralt hesitates before answering. “I told you about that prophetess I met in Gulet. She seemed to predict the catastrophes to come.”

Triss’s exasperation finds its true target once more. “Yes, and if you damn well remembered anything useful from what she said, we might all be better off.”

“You’d think an army of sorceresses could find a prophetess,” Geralt retorts.

Triss’s mouth twitches in annoyance, but she exhales slowly and keeps her voice level in her reply. “Let’s concentrate on what we _can_ do. You’ll need to help me replant the samples into spare pots – I’ll get the pot, there’s some in the broom closets, I’ve just forgotten which one it was exactly. They stocked this place with all sorts of tools and things, for the people who came after – oh, but I want _you_ to fetch the fresh soil. That’s in the second cupboard on the right, over there. Two sacks will do for now.”

Geralt sighs and walks delicately through the rows of plants, towards the indicated room. The ‘cupboard’ that Triss spoke of is more of an alcove, a door-less indentation in the wall with shelves stacked full of strange metal tools and mysterious jars. 

_Another ‘interesting’ job turns out to be nothing more than yard work_ , Geralt thinks bitterly. _Well, at least it’s a change from the books._

They work at the task for a while, transferring certain plants from the garden beds into the pots. It’s slow work, especially as Triss is extremely particular that Geralt does not damage the root systems in any way. Luckily, the preservation spell has meant that few of the roots have had time to grow into each other – if they had, extracting the plants without causing damage would be nigh on impossible. 

While he works, Geralt thinks about what Triss had said about the Blight – he tries to imagine who, or what, could create magic more powerful than the most ancient spells. More powerful than the gods themselves. His imagination does not provide an answer, or even the estimate of one.

“This greenhouse reminds me of Aretuza,” Triss says after a while, taking a break from her labour and wiping away some sweat from her brow. Geralt supposes that the preservation magic must have captured the heat of a much sunnier day, the weather from another age entirely.

“I don’t recall there being any garden like this on Thanedd,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow. His experience of Aretuza had during a great banquet, with slightly more than the traditional amount of betrayal and bloodshed. He had been impressed by the luxurious elegance of the place, but did not particularly recall the greenery.

“You wouldn’t,” Triss says, shaking her head. “I’m not talking about the grand halls they show visitors. On the lower levels, in Loxia, there’s a classroom filled with plants.”

Geralt recalls the shifting illusions of Yennefer’s vision in the Cave of Dreams. “Ah. I think I know the one.”

“You do?” Triss says disbelievingly. Then she frowns, and looks away from Geralt. She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs loudly. “Yennefer’s ghost-dream, huh?”

“Yennefer told you about that?” Geralt asks incredulously.

“Why wouldn’t she?” Triss says, her voiced laced with a dare. “We’ve been best friends for _decades._ She tells me _everything_.”

It is as though she wants Geralt to disagree and start an argument. A strange thing to disagree with, he thinks. And for all Triss’s possessiveness of Yennefer’s friendship, had _she_ not been the one to sleep with Geralt behind Yennefer’s back?

His thoughts are interjected by a sudden recollection of Jaskier’s voice.

_Oh, Geralt, how little you know of women._

A glimmer of a memory flashes through the waters of his mind, although he cannot catch it, nor place it neatly into any part of reality. Loose scenes from his dreams flutter briefly in his mind’s eye, all disconnected from each other.

“I’m not denying you’re important to her. You’re important to me too, you know,” Geralt adds hastily.

“I’m sure,” Triss replies.

“No, truly, Triss. I feel like the three of us are meant to get along. You were both in my dreams last night. You and Yennefer.”

Triss starts analysing him again, with that irritating scrutinising look that she seems to get when he’s either said something surprisingly intelligent or surprisingly stupid.

“Are you trying to seduce me? You’ve gotten desperate enough to turn to me now Yen is ignoring you, is that it?”

“No!” Geralt exclaims hastily. “I just wanted to prove that, subconsciously, I know how important you are to me and to Yen… I don’t know. I spoke before thinking.”

“Not unusual, for you,” Triss mutters. Geralt ignores that particular aside.

“There was something strange about last night. I’m not usually so affected by my nightmares. I still feel echoes of hollow sadness over whatever I dreamt.”

“It’s the wine,” Triss says dismissively.

Geralt pauses from where he has been digging at the roots of a beautiful yellow sapling. “No, it’s not just that. I’ve had that wine before. Something about them was real, more affecting than any other dream I can recall – even though I cannot recall much of what I dreamt.”

The sorceress frowns, and uncrosses her arms. “Perhaps it’s a sign you’re being affected by the Blight too. Or, perhaps, your dreams are just particularly potent now that you are here. Not every spell in Ban Ard is contained. There are flares of magic that can make all sorts of things act erratically, including dreams.”

“Mm,” Geralt says noncommittally, resuming his excavation of the sapling roots. He tries to remember more of the dream, but finds the details evading his grasp, a fish swimming further down the river even as he tries to run after it. “What happened to the students that were at Aretuza? I would have assumed Philippa would want their help.”

Triss resumes her work, sighing and heaving a large sack of soil into a fresh pot.

“The rectoress, Rita – Margarita Laux-Antille – she and Philippa had a small disagreement over that,” Triss says, smirking slightly. Geralt imagines that a ‘small disagreement’ between the Lodge might involve as much collateral damage as one between he and Yennefer.

“And?”

“She took the students to Kovir,” Triss says, shaking her head wearily. “She said that putting all our eggs in one basket was suicide. Having said that, nearly cracked all the eggs in _her_ basket – only narrowly escaped Novigrad, from what I hear. Only narrowly escaped _Aretuza,_ come to that – Radovid had the place ransacked. Thank the gods that he has no interest in magic. There were things in that academy that could have wiped out half the Continent.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Geralt says slowly. “I heard Radovid was secretly experimenting with magic in Oxenfurt, trying to formulate it into a weapon he could use without the need for mages.”

“He can try,” Triss says unworriedly, “but if the Blight continues, even if he found some way to do that – he still wouldn’t be able to control it. As far as I can see, it’s not the mages that are sick. It’s the magic itself.”

Geralt considers this, as he extracts the soil from around the base of the yellow sapling.

“I suppose the mages growing weak can only be a victory for Radovid – Nilfgaard’s forces are far more reliant on magic. He wouldn’t even need the weapon once all his enemies are defeated.”

“No, and he needs all the support of the Church he can muster. From what I hear, the populations in the East are growing unruly, but the Eternal Fire is keeping them under control – so to speak – by running a campaign of widespread persecution of anyone remotely associated with mages.”

She pauses, and nods to Geralt’s sapling. “Are you ready for me to transfer that over here?”

“Go ahead,” Geralt affirms, digging the roots out gently and passing the tree over to Triss, who places it delicately in her half-full pot of soil. Geralt takes the opportunity to watch her work, and luxuriate for a moment in the sunlight without worrying about broken roots.

“You think their control will last?” Geralt says eventually. “If things continue?”

Triss grits her teeth. Her hands work at the base of the tree, scooping soil back around the roots. Her green gloves are covered in filth, and Geralt wonders if she’s ever washed them before without using magic.

“I don’t know how long they can hold out, but they’re doing a damn good job taking advantage of the situation. From what I hear, they’ve turned it into some sort of – metaphor about a necessary purge of the world’s evil. ‘Suffer now, so the future may thrive’, that sort of thing. Of course, they’ve managed to capture far more mages and monsters than usual, so it keeps the people’s ire focused on their imagined enemies rather than each other.”

“For now,” Geralt concludes.

“For now,” Triss agrees. “But when the food truly runs out, and the people find they cannot eat holy fire, I doubt they will be so easily manipulated. When that happens, all it will take is a spark, and even the Church will find itself consumed by its own fires.”

* * *

In the late afternoon, Triss brings four copies of the _Good Book_ to the library, grinning triumphantly.

“Where on the Continent were these hiding?” Jaskier says, amazed.

“Seems the rector of Ban Ard confiscated these years ago. Apparently, they inspired a large Lebioda cult here in the Academy that contradicted some of the mages’ teachings,” Triss replies, tossing them each a book. “That’s why you couldn’t find them in the library; they were locked away in his office on the seventh floor.”

“They’re _so_ thick!” Pratima exclaims, picking a book up and dropping it to the table with a loud thud.

“Well, not all of it is just Prophet Lebioda,” Jaskier explains. “There’s quite a few prophets and philosophers and so forth in here… quite a few plain old madmen as well, particularly in the beginning.”

“You sound well-acquainted with the _Good Book,_ Jaskier,” Geralt comments.

Jaskier’s lips purse. “I… have had to interact with quite a few people who are – hm. _Devoted_ followers. This book is the basis of the law in Toussaint, you know.”

 _The Good Book of Prophet Lebioda's Wisdom_ ,’” Pratima reads, as they turn to the middle section of the book. “‘ _The Teachings of the King of the Universe’_. Gregory’s balls, not a humble man, was he?”

“I think you’ll find that epithet came later,” Jaskier says, leafing through his own copy. “Only the Toussaintois call him that, pretentious bastards that they are. Ah, here we go – gods, the section for 1250 through to 1300 is longer than I remembered!”

“I already looked through it, and most of it seems like the vague ramblings of a madman, albeit an eloquent one. I’m not sure we can trust his word on things,” Triss surmises. “But, there’s an entire page on 1272 – look, it starts with mentioning ‘ill portents’ and so on, but then has a whole section rambling about the balance between darkness and light. Melitele’s bountiful tits, I wish these prophets wrote concrete statements like, ‘a good year for the apple harvest’, or, ‘Redania will lose this battle, on this date, at this location’.”

“Can’t be too specific,” Jaskier says sardonically. “They’d lose their whole business. Or, maybe they can’t have their readers altering fate. If everyone knew Redania was going to win a battle, who would fight it?”

Geralt remembers the story told to him of the two siblings who unknowingly fell in love, and killed their own parents.

“Read the whole page,” Geralt says slowly, rising from his chair and peering over Triss’s shoulder.

“… _I was asked by one such man – when can I expect war near my village, or pestilence? In what year should I sell my house? But there are no such rules around the knowledge of Creation. I will admit, however, that there are years where the fabric of Creation becomes strained. Yes, it can eventually tear if pulled hard enough, and the threads that are rewoven can take on colours and patterns that even I cannot see. Take, for example, the year 1272. A year of balanced fortune. When I foresee this number, I see equals and opposites. But that is what they must be; equals. One must consider; should we cast Darkness out, decry it as evil, and have only Light in our world? Many would say that we should. In this year, a great army of people will claim just that, and seek to eradicate the Darkness from the world entirely. They will pledge to light every corner of the world with their fires, such that no shadow will ever be cast again. But I say to you, my people; we should accept all things in this holy world, for all have been touched with grace. They are the gifts of Creation, and thus are all holy in Creation’s eyes. Darkness is not Evil itself, for Evil cannot exist without Good. Just in this way, shadows cannot exist without a light to cast them, and without shadows we would see only Light._

_So in this way, the forces of the world should be in balance. Darkness must equal Light, and so the powers that govern Creation can exist in harmony. It is a mistake to assume that Light and Darkness are at war. No; for they are brothers, and must co-exist. To war is to weaken, to defile, to create imbalance. War is an act of selfishness. To war, one values oneself more than the other party. When Darkness and Light were created, they were therefore given the greatest bonds of love. They can never be taken from each other, never parted. But even the purest of loves can grow corrupted. Cast your mind back to the parable of Adama; when two lovers are alone, and know each other completely, they will want for nothing. But when they are exposed to the world, when their nakedness becomes shame, they will become greedy for pride._

_So it is that if the world of Darkness and Light is cracked open, and their flesh lies exposed, they will begin to wax and wane as the moon waxes and wanes. The world may well be thrown into disarray, as the Darkness swallows the Light. It will be at this point that a new balance must be struck. Or else, indeed, war will follow, and pestilence, and as with all things, Death. So I said to this man, you might do well to sell your house before the year 1272.”_

“Not so much prophecy as philosophy,” Jaskier grumbles. “It’s why he’s so loved. People think they can take this single book as some perfect gospel on how to feel, and think, and act.”

“‘Be considerate of others’ is not the worst thrust for a religion, as they go,” Geralt observes mildly. “His followers could certainly be worse. He wasn’t wrong about the house, either.”

Triss makes an annoyed sound in her throat. “That’s all very well for the investors at Giancardi Bank, but is there any practical advice here? Or is it no more than that?”

The four of them scan the words again, looking for some hidden meaning.

“Could it mean an eclipse?” Pratima suggests eventually. They turn to look at the doppler, who looks back them innocently. “It mentions the moon waxing and waning, and then darkness swallowing light…”

“Probably,” Triss mutters. “It’s always a fucking eclipse with these prophecies.”

“How does this help us?” Geralt demands. “We just wait for an eclipse, and everything will turn out well? When _is_ the next eclipse?”

“We can look it up in the astrology records,” Jaskier says quickly.

“And then what?”

“I don’t know, I was just trying to help! It doesn’t make any more sense to me, either!”

Pratima skims through the pages of the _Good Book_ while Triss, Jaskier and Geralt debate what kind of magical events could arise from an eclipse.

“What about these other ones?” the doppler asks suddenly. The three others turn to look at Pratima, startled by the interruption.

“Other ones?” Triss asks.

“The other prophets,” Pratima says impatiently. “Look, this thing has what, fifty _Good Books of_ in it other than Lebioda’s, right? Why don’t we look to see if we can find out anything else before we jump to conclusions? There has to be other stuff in here about this. Let’s get all the information we can before we start acting on it.”

Triss squints at the doppler. “How old are you, really?”

“I already asked that,” Jaskier mutters.

The doppler grins. “Maybe I’m just wise for my age. Come on, let’s each grab a copy and get to work.”

They are interrupted, however, by an unexpected voice at the doorway.

“Whose child is that?”

Geralt freezes.

“Yennefer,” Triss says, relieved. “We might finally have some new information to work with.”

He tries, for a moment, to ignore her presence – but it’s no use. Curiosity and loneliness get the better of him, and he glances up towards the familiar figure of his lover. She, in turn, seems to be exchanging a very intense stare with Triss.

 _They might well be communicating with their thoughts,_ Geralt thinks, remembering how Yennefer always used to read his mind against his wishes.

To his surprise, though, her gaze then suddenly meets his own.

“I have to do something urgently, and I need Geralt to come with me. It will only take a few hours. Will you come?”

Yennefer never asks with a ‘please’, and yet Geralt can tell she is desperate. He is angry with her, angry beyond anything. She thinks she can ignore him, and then use him only when he is necessary to her own ends?

And yet, of course, the answer is, as always –

“Yes.”

He pretends not to notice the incredulous stare he is getting from Jaskier’s direction.

“Triss,” Yennefer says, looking at her best friend with utter solemnity. “If anyone finds us missing – anyone, including Philippa – I need you to pretend I am in my room with Geralt and do not wished to be disturbed. Is that understood?”

Triss nods immediately. “You have my word.”

“If you’re not fucking Geralt, where _are_ you going?” Jaskier interjects impudently.

Yennefer smiles with grim determination, her ferocity undiminished by the ravages of the Blight.

“To my old home, the place where Triss and I were raised into this life. I need to return, once more, to Aretuza.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Her love’s as unfair as a crook’ is obviously a reference to ‘Her Sweet Kiss’.
> 
> Most of the dialogue from the doppler dream is lifted from a (possible) scene in Witcher 3. Geralt’s dreams are tapping into ‘alternate realities’ here, or so I say, as I justify lifting a vision of that scene into this story, because reasons.
> 
> The greenhouse area is based on the seed vaults and frozen zoos of our world.
> 
> In the canon timeline for 1272 (the Witcher 3), Margarita and her students are captured in Novigrad on the way to Kovir, and the students are burned at the stake by Radovid.
> 
> The Good Book is the Christian Bible equivalent of the Witcher world, and Lebioda is, naturally, the Jesus-Who-Gets-Eaten-By-A-Dragon.


	13. Feainn - Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentioned very, very briefly - self-harm, suicide and rape/attempted rape of background characters. Internalised homophobia.

Aretuza stands as a testament to the architectural feats possible when you have an army of elven slaves. Geralt can’t help but feel as though it is a great beast waiting to be awoken, a mountain-sized golem that lies dormant, ready to one day wake and burn down the world. Even in its broken, ruined state, it is still a grim and foreboding place. Perhaps even more so now that it lies ransacked and empty. Despite feeling the steel and fire of the Redanian witch hunters, the whole area still resonates with a deep, intimidating power.

When Geralt had last visited Thanedd Island, the weather had been fair and the elven architecture had sparkled in the sunlight. Now, however, the clouds around Thanedd are dark and tempestuous, and the stone of Aretuza is forebodingly dull, the once-glowing columns no longer lit. Where it had once seemed an extravagant statement of power and grandeur, it now reminds Geralt more of an oversized mausoleum.

Geralt follows Yennefer carefully across the rocky clifftop towards the grand entrance. They had landed scarcely two yards from a sheer drop into a roiling ocean; he is grateful that Triss and Yennefer are such skilled sorceresses, and could position the portal from Ban Ard in a place that ensured a safe landing. Still slightly nauseous from the journey through the void, Geralt makes a point not to look down towards the sea as he walks across the edge of the cliff.

“Do you think Radovid left any guards around?” Geralt calls out. He has to ask twice; the first time he isn’t loud enough, and his words are stolen by the wind.

“Radovid did not leave Aretuza in a state habitable enough for even the peasantry,” Yennefer shouts, with no small amount of venom in her voice. “There isn’t anything left here for the mages to come back for, anyway. Radovid’s thugs took what they could carry, and burned what they could not.”

 _Then why are we here?_ Geralt thinks, but cannot be bothered to shout over the gale again. He suspects he will soon find out regardless.

He looks up as they cross under the intimidating arches at the front of Aretuza, and the light from outside abruptly disappears. Inside the complex, all is dark. Geralt can make out crumbling stone and knocked over furniture, and, if he squints – bloodstains, spattered on varied surfaces. There was once a large atrium at the front of ground floor, filled with magical glass sculptures that shimmered in many colours and constantly reinvented their own forms. Geralt can see no trace of the sculptures or colours, only a few shards of broken glass.

He remembers a chattering crowd with fanciful outfits holding delicate and oddly shaped glasses. He remembers the colours, the lights and the laughter, and the memory overlays itself over the scene before him.

He doesn’t have a chance for any further reminiscing, however, because Yennefer is already several paces ahead of him, leaping through the maze of rubble with practiced ease.

“Come on,” she says, creating an orb of fire in her hand to provide them with light. “This way.”

She leads him into a shadowed alcove, and then down a winding, narrow stone staircase. The bricks underneath his hand give way to jagged rock as they descend, the steps becoming shallower, smoother. Yennefer only pauses once, and it is because a body lies in their way. As it is garbed in the colours of Redania, she only gives it the briefest glace before exhaling softly and stepping over it.

The steps flatten into a landing, next an arched doorway. “Here,” Yennefer says, and Geralt follows her out into a small, empty grotto. Yennefer stands at the edge of a rocky outcrop, looking down. She raises her hand ceremoniously, and the waters around her glow white. Geralt glimpses some sort of fish species swimming deep in the milky water.

“What is this place?” Geralt asks.

“Something I have ignored for long enough,” Yennefer replies bitterly. She starts murmuring an incantation under her breath, and then screams, her body crumpling. The waters shine with overwhelming light, and then vanish, along with whatever strange creatures were swimming in their depths.

“Yennefer!” Geralt cries, hand flung out in front of his face, his eyes burning from the flare. He stumbles forward, clutching at the sorceress.

“Don’t… don’t touch me,” Yennefer rasps. “Don’t look at me.”

Geralt, never one for obedience, looks. Yennefer is hunched over –her body has become distended, compacted in length but with large lumps on her back and sides. It is as though the sorceress has been replaced with some sort of grown botchling, clothed in Yennefer’s dress and with the same colour hair.

She looks at him, violet eyes flashing, and Geralt recoils. “What have you done to yourself?”

Rage and sorrow clash in the eyes of the woman before him. She no longer smells of lilac, nor elderberries.

“It’s temporary,” Yennefer says, voice monotone. “I needed more magic than I possessed. The sacrifice will give us the power we need to open a portal to Ciri.”

“You know where she is?” Geralt says, and then, “What do you mean, _the sacrifice_?”

Yennefer ignores him, standing to her feet. “You’ve never known what I’m truly capable of.” She turns from him, and begins to ascend the stone steps.

Geralt follows her doggedly, firing questions at her that she continues to ignore. “What sacrifice? What do you mean I don’t know you? I’ve spent years with you, how could – Yen, where is Ciri? What _happened_ to you? Why are you acting – what did you just _do? Where is Ciri?_ ”

Geralt hears thunder crack in the sky overhead. Once – twice – three times. The wind is howling ferociously, and Geralt feels the swoop in his chest of a sudden foreboding. “Yen,” he shouts finally, “ _What did you do_?”

The staircase is wide enough for only one person, and so Geralt cannot overtake her. Instead he is left helplessly trailing after her, his eyes watching the black leather of her boots ascend step after step in front of him. At the top, Yennefer marches straight towards the entrance, her figure silhouetted by the flashing lightning outside. The flashes momentarily blind Geralt, and in that instant he loses track of Yennefer.

The wind blows open some of the great glass windows, shattering them into pieces. Geralt covers his face to shield his skin from the shards, and runs outside into the storm.

“YEN!” Geralt roars. He squints against the wind, and his breath catches.

Yennefer is walking calmly across a narrow bridge, to the tower on the precariously balanced rock formation opposite Aretuza. Storm clouds and winds are whirling about the tower in a perfect circle, creating an eye of complete calm surrounding the narrow, spindly turret. Water and wind lash at Geralt’s face, and it takes all his strength to continue standing – and yet Yennefer seems unaffected, disappearing into the tower entrance without any sign of distress.

“Yennefer!” Geralt cries, but he cannot follow – the wind will not allow it.

He waits, squinting against the forces of the storm, his heart in his mouth and his mind racing to think of some way to help. After a minute that seems like it will never end, the swirling storm accelerates even faster, and faster, and lightning begins to crackle from every direction.

“Yen!” Geralt shouts, but the words are lost in the storm.

At last, the wind and lightning unite into a sudden ball of bright light, blinding Geralt once again. He shuts his eyes reflexively, but he can hear and feel the colossal current of lightning that hits the tower.

Dread fills him, and he falls forward trying to get across the bridge. He feels his hands hit jagged rock, the edges slicing open his palms. “Fuck!” Geralt yells, “Fuck, fuck, fuck–”

He looks up again, and sees a glowing light emerge from the tower entrance. Yennefer is – safe! – and cradling some sort of object close to her chest. She walks across the bridge with the same unaffected calm, while the wind and rain scour the rock around her.

The vortex of the storm seems to have dissipated now, the clouds moving out from the tower towards every point on the horizon. Lightning crackles down as the darker clouds move away, striking the sea to the west and sending great clouds of spray into the air.

Yennefer finishes crossing the bridge just as a lightning bolt slams into the cliff near Geralt and sends him flying back. He collides with a hard, jagged rock, and pain spikes through his head and back.

“Geralt!” Yennefer cries. “The portal!”

He looks up, head feeling like it is being split apart with a knife, and sees she has conjured a portal back. He leaps to his feet, ignoring the protesting ringing in his ears and flashes of white inside his brain, and jumps head first into the spinning vortex.

 _I’m going to pass out,_ Geralt thinks vaguely, and his mind has time enough to follow up with, _at least I won’t feel the portal try to squeeze my insides out of my skin again,_ before all he knows is darkness.

* * *

When he comes to, the first thing he sees is a beautiful painting, with fairies that float between panels, offering fruit and baked sweets to the worried-looking farmers. He frowns, and tilts his head. On the second panel, rotated from the first, it looks as though the fairies are being chased out and hunted. He blinks, and realises he is staring at a ceiling – albeit a prettily painted one. He blinks again, and sees the fairies _really are_ moving – they fly from the third panel to the fourth, shooting villagers with their arrows as they go.

He shuts his eyes. _You’re hallucinating, Witcher,_ he thinks firmly.

He risks cracking open his eyelids again. A fairy winks at him salaciously.

“Enjoying the scenery, are we?” he hears Triss say.

Geralt swivels his head to locate her, and the resulting movement sends a jab of pain through him. “Ow,” he exclaims.

“Quite a bang to the head you took,” Triss observes. “You feeling alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt grunts. “Where’s Yen?”

Triss sighs. “Right. Of course. No time for pleasantries. She’s recovering from carrying out one of the most monumental magical undertakings of all time – although pretend I didn’t say that, as far as anyone else knows you two just had a bit of a – sexual escapade gone wrong.”

Geralt closes his eyes again momentarily, memories flashing through his mind. The tower, the lightning, Yennefer’s hunched form. Questions bubble up in him and he struggles to pick one to start with.

“What happened?” he settles on, rubbing his forehead wearily.

Triss hesitates. “I wish I wasn’t the one who had to explain it,” she says eventually. “I don’t know how much Yen wants me to say. But – well. She’s been searching for Ciri, all this time, without telling anyone but me. It was clear Ciri was no longer in our world, but we did not know how to locate her on another plane. Then, about two months ago, we finally found a spell that could help.”

“A spell?” Geralt asks. “What spell?”

“Hard to explain the intricacies, but – it requires a huge amount of energy, an enormous output of magic, and with it you can rend holes in time and space to wherever your desired destination may be, no matter how far away they may be. No matter where they may be, in this universe or any other.”

“And? Did she find Ciri?” he asks abruptly, hope rising in his chest. He looks around the room, as though expecting to find her there. He doesn’t find a trace of his surrogate daughter – however, he does notice Jaskier asleep in a corner, curled silent and small into the cushions of an armchair.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Triss says, huffing. “The combined power of the Lodge might have been able to activate such a spell once upon a time, but with our magic dwindling due to the Blight, we knew there was no chance of such a thing now. Especially because if we wanted to use the spell, it would take months to prepare for, and _every day_ we grew weaker.”

She pauses, and walks to the side of Geralt’s bed, sitting next to him on the mattress and offering him her hand.

Geralt frowns at it, confused.

“Take my hand,” Triss says exasperatedly. “The more intimately we are connected, the easier it is to convey my thoughts. Yennefer must have done this with you, surely - for two mages who are lovers, mental transference is as easy as breathing. I could connect to your mind without physical contact, of course, but I’d rather save my magic where I can. Well, a kiss would be a better conduit – the best conduit is obviously sex, but that _can_ lead to complex psychological overlap–”

“The hand will do, thanks,” Geralt interrupts. He overlays her palm with his own, and feels her mind communicate with his own, a maelstrom of thoughts and images and emotions all vying for his attention. He closes his eyes, and lets Triss’s mind take his own.

 _We were running out of time,_ he hears, and sees flashes of Yennefer and Triss arguing. _We both wanted desperately to find Ciri, and yet our only option was beyond our reach. And so –_ Geralt sees Yennefer and Triss in bed together – _in_ bed _together?_ – talking in low voices – _Yennefer,_ and he sees flashes of emotions _warm intelligent brave – Yennefer realised we were going about it wrong. That the solution was to find the magical power we were lacking._

He sees visions of old temples, enormous crumbling monuments. _We tried looking in many places, but every day our powers grew weaker. Eventually, the Lodge forbade me from expending power on our ‘excursions’. Yennefer went on her own – under Philippa’s orders to investigate the source of the Blight, officially, but at the same time she hoped to find something that could give us the power we needed._

Geralt is presented with what must be Yennefer’s own memories transferred to Triss, sees himself through Yennefer’s eyes – _lust affection doubt –_ and the journey into the Cave of Dreams – _hope anticipation desperation_.

 _But then she, too, was called back,_ Triss thinks, _and we despaired of finding a solution, until last week. Yen was talking about the Cave of Dreams, and she realised that there was one power source that has gone untapped. Our fellow students, cursed to swim around as eels for eternity, powering the magics of a ruined, empty building._

“Aretuza,” Geralt says aloud. “The pool. Those were – eels? No, your peers? _Children?_ ”

 _They were turned into conduits for Aretuza’s magic. Even when we remembered the pool, we searched for days for a spell that would convert their energy into something we could keep until the time was right. Then –_ and he sees Yennefer in the library with them, from Triss’s eyes – _Yennefer decided she would simply make it up._ Geralt feels _pride_ vibrate softly around the statement. _We had mere days left until our powers were too weak for the two of us to open a portal. It was time to act, no matter the cost._

Geralt sees flashes of Aretuza, once more from Yennefer’s perspective. He feels _desperation_ flood him, feels _despair pain anger_ as he sees his own face watching her emerge from the spell, horrified by her new, unenchanted body. _No,_ Geralt realises _. Not her new body. Her old one._

 _The law of magic equivalency states that in order for chaos to be ordered, order must be set to chaos, and vice versa,_ he hears Triss’s mind say, and it presents him with images of shapes being rearranged, a classroom full of plants and a student raising their hands. _Yennefer needed to destroy the magic around her before she could re-create it into a new form. She split apart the life energy of those misbegotten students, and welded them into a form of energy we could use._

Geralt sees a large glass vial sitting atop a study desk, crackling with raw power.

_Yennefer… split apart their energy? She killed them?_

Triss’s mental voice is distinctly grim. _Those students were already dead. They were trapped in a pool for eternity. Their minds would be in no condition for a human form._

Geralt can feel the guilt brewing in the corner of Triss’s mind, a dark cloud growing in spite of her words. He opens his eyes to look at her.

_Yennefer did them a favour. Their life energy was being drained over centuries for Aretuza. At least this way, they had a quick end._

_It seems a mind-link works two ways, Triss. I can tell you’re not being honest with me. Why is it that I’ve never heard of this type of magic being used before?_

_Even Yennefer struggled to pull it off,_ Triss says indignantly. _It drained her until the foundational magic around her began to unspool. You think ordinary mages could accomplish this?_

Geralt stares at her. Triss’s expression does not waver, but he feels her thoughts shudder, like a candle flickering in a gust of wind.

_Fine. You must not tell anyone of this._

_I wouldn’t,_ Geralt assures her.

_Only Yennefer and I know of this. I know you would do anything for Ciri too, but this…_

_Tell me._

Triss hesitates, but finally Geralt feels her lower some barrier in her mind. It is as though some string has suddenly been cut that Geralt did not notice was there.

_Whenever a spell is cast, a price must be paid. This is one of the first lessons we learn at Aretuza. Skilled mages can hide this cost, disperse it until it is barely noticeable – but larger magics require a larger price. It is why both Yennefer and yourself are infertile. A sacrifice must be made._

Geralt’s chest prickles with fear. _What sacrifice was made that was so terrible you cannot speak of it?_

_I told you that Yennefer drained their life energy – that was not the truth. Life energy is used in many spells, but it is not as powerful or forbidden as what she did. She… did not just take their physical life energy. She took their very souls, and transformed them into a type of power we could use._

_What does that even mean, Triss?_

Triss’s eyes dart back and forth under her eyelids. Geralt is reminded, strangely, of when they would sleep together and he would wake early for training. Sometimes, she would lie peaceful against the sheets, dreaming with a happy smile. The striking colours of her hair and clothes were always out of place in Kaer Morhen.

_I… we don’t know, exactly. I will put it in terms you will be familiar with. When you find a ghost, Geralt, what is that creature? It is not energy of the flesh, nor is it energy of magic alone. In Aretuza, we are forbidden from studying the afterlife too closely. Many mages have tried, and been killed for it. But from what Yennefer and I have gleaned over the years, it seems that all humanoid creatures have a soul of sorts, an invisible energy. Where does that energy go, when people die? Where do ghosts go after they are banished? Where do they come from, when we summon them with necromancy?_

Geralt has never thought about that too closely. His job is getting the dead out of the realm of the living, not examining what lies beyond. No religion has yet convinced him they have the right idea, and so he has assumed there may well be nothing at all.

_So when Yennefer changed those souls into lightning, she prevented the students from entering whatever afterlife they might have been given._

Triss’s cloud of guilt magnifies. _She killed their immortal souls. It is even more repulsive than necromancy. Necromancy makes a mockery of the dead… but to desecrate souls themselves? If there is judgement in the afterlife, then Yennefer has just damned her_ own _soul entirely._

Geralt tastes bile. _We don’t know that. You just said you don’t really know anything about what comes after._

_I know that what she did is the greatest taboo imaginable._

Geralt sees, in his mind’s eye – or Triss’s, he cannot be sure which – the image of Yennefer, alone on a cliff and staring resolutely into the wind. _Lonely,_ one of them thinks, and then, _she shouldn’t be, I don’t want her to be._

Triss withdraws her hand from his abruptly, ending the transference. Geralt lies still for a moment, sorting through the vast amount of information he has just been given.

“You cannot tell anyone of this,” Triss says suddenly. “The consequences if the others found out…”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Geralt promises. “But Triss – everything you’ve done, everything Yennefer has sacrificed – will it work? Will we be able to find Ciri?”

Triss takes Geralt’s hand again, but this time just squeezes it tightly before retracting it again. “I believe it is possible. But,” she sighs, “we need to wait. The spell has the best chance of succeeding when the veil between the worlds grows thinnest, so we _must_ hold ourselves back until the winter solstice.”

“But – that’s _months_ away,” Geralt cries, outraged. “ _Anything_ could happen to her while we sit around and wait for _Yule_! And if she really is the key to stopping the Blight, shouldn’t we be trying to find her faster?”

Triss shakes her head. “The magic we collected is barely enough to manage the spell – it’s a good start, but even if we can convince several other mages to help us, we only have the slimmest chance of producing enough power to open the rift. We only get one shot – we have to take it when the time is right, or it _will_ fail, and all of this will have been for nothing.”

Geralt stews in silence for a moment, picking over the memories again. “Rather unwelcome method of letting me know you’ve been warming her bed, by the way,” he says suddenly, recalling the glimpses of Triss and Yen together. His mind is still adjusting to the separation from Triss’s own, but he can now pick up on the residue of strange threads of warm, syrupy sweetness that were not of his own making.

“It’s been a long year, Geralt,” Triss hisses. “Yennefer loves you. Don’t think too hard on it. We all know you both fuck other people when you’re apart; she was just short on options while we were being ordered around by the Lodge.”

Geralt might have believed her, if their minds had not been linked enough for him to see the lie. He allows silence to settle over them for a moment, before saying quietly, “You care very deeply for her.”

Triss’s cheeks redden to match her hair. “I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have transferred thoughts to you today. I was not disciplined enough in controlling my anger.”

“Anger?” Geralt echoes, confused. “But you got the energy we need to find Ciri!”

“I’m angry at – I’m angry at _you_!” Triss hisses in a furious rush. “Because you broke Yen’s heart when you looked at her like she was something you would kill.”

“I didn’t look at her like that,” Geralt says, aghast, although having seen Yennefer’s own memories, he knows for a fact that he did. “I mean, I don’t think that of her. I didn’t. I – I _love_ her.”

Triss looks at him sadly. “We’re not sure that you do,” she says, and holds up her hands when Geralt makes to protest. “Rather – we’re sure you love each other, but the intense feeling of being _drawn_ to one another, the intense passion you feel – love isn’t always that,” she says, looking away from Geralt now and staring out the stained-glass window above the chair in which Jaskier lies sleeping. “It starts as that, sometimes, but then – it changes, shifts into something softer. You and Yennefer have always been infatuated with each other, and that infatuation has never faded. Yennefer suspects it may just be the wish you made to the djinn. Giving you a reason to stay together – at least some of the time,” she finishes, and Geralt winces at the obvious reference to their famously explosive arguments.

“I can’t undo the wish,” Geralt says slowly. “If we are in love, why does it – why does it _matter_?” he asks, desperately. “What does it matter what _kind_ of love it is?”

“Because you took away her choice,” Triss says sharply, and then adds, “and – that of anyone that loves her.”

Geralt stares at her, and sees her cheeks redden again as she continues to avoid his gaze.

“Oh,” Geralt says. “I – I understand now.”

“I’m sorry,” Triss says, lowering her eyes to her hand and extracting it from Geralt’s. “I cannot pretend I am telling you this without a vested interest in the matter. But I assure you,” she continues doggedly, “I did not convince her of anything she did not already think. But I _am_ sorry that I overstepped.” She stands up, and makes to leave the room.

“Will she see me?” Geralt asks abruptly, as she opens the door.

Triss sighs. “I told you,” she says slowly, with an unfixed gaze towards the corridor. “She couldn’t stay away if she tried.” She closes the door with a soft _thump,_ and Geralt is left alone with his thoughts.

 _Well, not quite alone,_ Geralt remembers, his eyes falling to Jaskier’s sleeping form. His clothes are rumpled and untucked, his hair askew, and he has dark circles under his eyes. He looks terrible.

 _How long have I been here?_ Geralt thinks, and then, _how long has_ he _been here?_

* * *

The next time Geralt awakes, Pratima is bouncing up and down on his mattress in the same place Triss had been sitting before.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” they say enthusiastically.

“I don’t suppose your energetic shaking of my bed had anything to do with that,” Geralt grumbles, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. He looks over to the armchair by the window, and finds it empty. Heavy rain is now falling outside, and he idly wonders how much time has passed.

“Where’s Jaskier?”

“Went to sleep in a proper bed,” Pratima says gleefully. “He sent me in his place, said I could take his form if anyone entered. Foolproof way of letting me see you. He was keeping watch over you for two days, you know. Wouldn’t come see me, I was worried you two had been killed by the mages.” They pout, bottom lip twitching. “’Course, when he found out you were alright, he came and let me know what happened.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says vaguely. “And Triss? Yennefer?”

“Yennefer’s that mean-looking sorceress, right? The one that came in and dragged you and Triss out of the library? I haven’t seen her. You were muttering her name in your sleep a lot, though,” they add, looking at Geralt with a raised eyebrow. “Is that your mother or something?”

“What!?” Geralt exclaims. “No! She’s – she’s – a _lover._ ” _Or was,_ he thinks grimly. “Haven’t you heard the stories of the White Wolf and the sorceress?”

“Ahh,” Pratima says, slowly. “I thought Jaskier made her up to hide – whatever was going on with you two. But I guess I was wrong about that.”

“What do you mean whate– we’re not _like that,_ ” Geralt says, aghast. His imagination supplies an image of him fucking Jaskier roughly from behind, the way he has seen soldiers rape other men. “We don’t do that.”

Pratima stares at him. “Of course,” they say eventually. “My mistake.”

The conversation reminds him of the memory of Triss and Yennefer, lying naked next to one another, and he frowns. “Fuck’s sake.”

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with it,” Pratima says sharply, taking his reaction as disgust at the idea. “You know most of the sorceresses are attracted to women. I transform into them sometimes, to try and sneak up here, and they’re all madly lusting after one another.”

That hits too close to the bone, and Geralt snarls. “You shouldn’t be reading people’s minds like that.”

“Part of the job,” Pratima shrugs, and twirls a plait of hair around in their fingers. “I’ve copied lots of people, so I know how folks think. Loads of them want to fuck people with the same genitals as them. Though, they’re still just as shallow – they’ll fuck anything pretty, but Melitele’s tits, most won’t touch a fat cripple.”

Geralt thinks they sound unusually bitter for some reason, and remembers Yennefer, crouched over and eyes flashing with fury.

“Some people love despite appearances,” Geralt says, clasping a hand to her shoulder in comfort. “I have seen it.” He thinks of husbands staying with their ageing wives, maids running into men’s arms despite horrific battle injuries, a princess in love with a hedgehog-faced man.

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Pratima says, rolling their eyes. “Anyway, that isn’t what I came here to talk about.”

They dig into the top compartment of their blouse, drawing out a patterned handkerchief stained with blood. “There have been two more murders downstairs,” Pratima says, tossing the handkerchief to Geralt. “One last night, and one the night before.”

Geralt sniffs the handkerchief, and frowns. “Vampire. Something else, too.”

“Yes, it seems one of those killed was a vampire who was pretending to be human,” the doppler says. “Not that I can blame her – after all, I’m doing the same. Still, the camp is uneasy – everyone is wondering if they’re next, and others are saying the dead deserved to die and are championing the killer.”

“Who was the other person killed?” Geralt asks, inspecting the bloodstain closely. The blood has blackened too quickly at the edges – a sign of ghostly influence. “How were the bodies found?”

“Some old woman from the dungeons,” Pratima says. “You know, the one with that cabinet full of dresses? Rumour says she got those from the young virgins she killed, whose blood she bathed in to remain young.”

“She looks over a hundred years old,” Geralt says, “So that spell was ineffective.”

“Unless she was really _five_ hundred years old,” Pratima replies dramatically. “I’m sure it’s just a rumour,” they continue, “but she really was a thorn in everyone’s side. The one night I was there, she was hassling everyone, asking for their food because she needed it ‘for her old bones’. Then she’d yell at people for the smallest things, like sitting too close to her. Fact is, I’m sure most people aren’t sorry she’s gone. They say she was rambling to herself all day and night, out of her mind, and then the next morning they found her with her throat cut and the dagger in her own hand.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “And the vampire?”

“Head smashed in with a brick, in the courtyard,” Pratima says, making a face at the gruesome memory. “Found that one myself, and picked this handkerchief off him before the others got there, in case you could find out anything useful from it.”

“I appreciate the foresight,” Geralt says, nodding. He examines the handkerchief again, and thumbs over the blackened blood. “There’s some sort of spectral residue on it, see here? They certainly weren’t suicides. Possibly an angry sorcerer’s spirit, trying to root out the trespassers in his home.”

“Are you going to do a witcher hunt now?” Pratima squeaks, bursting with excitement. “Can I come with you?”

Geralt gets out of bed, and goes to the wardrobe on the opposite wall. Mercifully, his clothes have been hung up for him, and his boots neatly laid together on the cabinet floor. “No. Now get out, I want to get changed.”

“ _Jaskier_ gets to go with you on hunts,” Pratima whines, and morphs into Jaskier’s body. “There. Can I come now?”

“ _Stop that_ ,” Geralt says sharply, discomforted. “If you want to help, go down to the crypts. But I can’t promise your safety if you come.”

“I’m not a child,” Pratima sniffs, visibly sulking as they morph back into their child form. “I can protect myself. I’ll be downstairs when you need me.”

They leave in a huff, slamming the door behind them.

Geralt finishes dressing into his shirt, pants and boots, and looks around for his sword and armour. _Must still be in the other room,_ he thinks. He ducks out into the corridor, and realises he must be very high up in a tower. The corridor is lavish, fringed with gold and crimson on every surface. The carpet is vibrantly patterned with golden leaves, the walls have portraits that seem to shimmer and move even as Geralt looks at them. The scent of magic is heavy in the air, and Geralt’s medallion vibrates with power.

“Stop that,” Geralt mutters to it. He has a sudden pang in his heart, as he thinks of Roach – or the horse formerly known as Roach. He hopes she’s still alive somewhere. She was a good steed.

The corridor leads to a winding, golden staircase. Geralt descends, increasingly annoyed at the extravagance favoured by the sorcerers in the upper levels of the tower. _If any of this is real,_ Geralt thinks, his fingers trailing along the sparkling diamond railing, _it could have paid for an army the size of Temeria._ He doesn’t think the over-extravagance even _looks_ good, but then again, he supposes nobody ever asked a witcher for their thoughts on interior decorations.

He descends several floors before coming out on a familiar looking landing, one he knows belongs to the fifth floor on which they take their dinner meals. From there, he is able to navigate back to his and Jaskier’s room on the third floor, only looking for a moment out towards Yennefer’s room as he passes the fourth-floor landing.

He enters their chamber door slowly, aware of a creak on the old rusted hinges. Despite his best efforts, the metal squawks to announce his arrival, and he sees Jaskier’s body shift underneath his bed sheets.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says sleepily. “’Time is it?”

“Midday,” Geralt says quietly. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. Wanted to get my swords and armour – think we have a haunting on our hands.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, rubbing his eyes. He looks at Geralt, eyes running up his body. Geralt feels embarrassed, although he isn’t sure why. _Doppler’s nonsense getting to me,_ he thinks. “All healed up, then?”

“No thanks to you,” Geralt snorts. “Heard you were hovering over me like a worried nursemaid.”

Jaskier doesn’t even try to deny it. “Not just me. Yennefer and Triss. Pratima was worried, too, when I told her. Why do you think we put you in the room up at the top of the tower? It would have been suspicious to have us hanging around down here, where anyone could see us coming in and out of the rooms. Besides which, these beds,” he adds, tapping his thin mattress with one hand, “are really appallingly terrible.”

Geralt has to agree, after the soft, enormous mattress he’d experienced upstairs. It was clear he and Jaskier had been given rooms that once belonged to students, rather than staff.

“Yennefer visited?” Geralt asks, catching up to the first part of his statement. “She’s okay, then?”

“Seemed pretty angry at you for getting hurt, but otherwise the same. Why?” Jaskier asks, confused.

“She didn’t look… different to you? Or act as though she hated me?”

Jaskier frowns. “Looked the same as always. And she always acts like she hates you, so can’t say much has changed there either.”

 _Perhaps not all is lost, then,_ Geralt thinks. _I need to see her when I can, to apologise._

“So, a ghost?” Jaskier asks, interrupting his thoughts. “A wraith, perhaps?”

“Not sure yet,” Geralt grunts, pulling on his armour. “Going to go find out.”

Jaskier blinks. “What, now? Don’t ghosts usually come out at night? _Now?_ ” He sighs, and rises from bed, donning a vest over his undershirt.

“You don’t have to come,” Geralt starts, but Jaskier shakes his head and smiles.

“I was getting sick of this room anyway,” he shrugs. “Besides, I wasn’t there when you and Yennefer went off to Aretuza, and look what happened.”

Geralt feels a smile tugging at his lips. It feels good to finally have a hunt to sink his teeth into again.

“Pass me my swords then,” Geralt says, as he fastens his shoulder strap around his chest. We have work to do.”

* * *

They inspect the crypts first, looking for any signs of disturbance around the graves. Pratima has set up their own small camp here, a simple pallet in a corner with a small campfire and tiny rucksack full of belongings. Enormous stone caskets and looming statues dwarf the doppler’s small settlement. Their torches flicker on the wall, creating looming, ghostly faces where the flame light hits the shapes of skulls piled against the walls.

“Don’t you get cold down here?” Jaskier asks, looking at the doppler’s pallet with mournful eyes. “You could sleep with us if you want.”

“Oh, it’s alright when the fire is going,” Pratima says, although Geralt is sure that’s not quite true. The crypt is freezing, with a chilly draft coming straight from the mountainside, and is dark and menacing besides. He thinks of the doppler alone in such a place, watching shadows on the wall, and resolves to get Pratima to have a room upstairs one way or another.

“Honestly,” Pratima continues, when the two men remain silent, “the worst thing that happened was when some drunk man came down here looking for me.”

Geralt grits his teeth. Jaskier goes white.

“’Course he didn’t really fancy doing anything when I turned into a brawler twice his size and punched his lights out,” Pratima says coolly. “Threw his unconscious body out onto the cliffside, through that door there. Haven’t seen him since – perhaps he froze to death.” Pratima’s tone is nonchalant, as though discussing the weather. They spot Jaskier’s face, and tilt their head to the side inquisitively. “I’m not actually a little girl, you know, Jaskier.”

“Ah. Yes.” Jaskier says vacantly, although Geralt is certain he had in fact forgotten that. “But I do not think such an experience could be pleasant for anyone.”

Pratima flickers their shoulders up and down, the smallest of gestures possible to communicate their indifference to the two of them. Geralt’s heart suddenly feels rather full of emotion for this doppler, alone in the world and with nobody to truly confide in save for themselves.

They search up and down the crypts, but find nothing that suggests any recent spiritual activity. Geralt checks various skeletons in their coffins for the tell-tale signs of blood on their teeth, but comes up with nothing. Frustrated, he returns to the central section of the crypts having exhausted all possibilities on his end of the dungeons. Jaskier returns looking similarly unsuccessful; Pratima, however, takes a long time to do their work, inspecting every coffin with the dogged determination of someone determined to be useful.

“This coffin lid has been disturbed, Geralt,” Pratima calls out after a time, pointing to a coffin some way down the crypt tunnels. Geralt goes to the doppler and examines it, lifting the heavy stone cover and inspecting the inside.

“Hmm. Empty,” Geralt says, peering at the inscription engraved on the wall above the small alcove. “Axel Miguel Esparza, Mage of Rissberg. Killed in battle at Sodden Hill. Hm.”

“Rissberg?” Pratima asks.

“Once upon a time, a seat of power for mages outside the rule of the Brotherhood,” Geralt explains. “Even the Brotherhood had certain rules about how magic should be practiced… and a tremendous number of mages chose to live outside those rules. A place of dark magic. I imagine quite a number of those welcomed back to Ban Ard were once at Rissberg.”

“So, is he our ghost?” Jaskier interrupts. “Perhaps his spirit was awakened by Nilfgaardians being welcomed to the castle.”

“Hmm. Didn’t kill Nilfgaardians, though. Doesn’t explain why his bones are missing, either.” Geralt stares at the empty grave a little longer, his mind sorting through possibilities. “Lack of dust on the hand marks means whoever moved this did it recently, in the past week or so.”

Geralt has a hypothesis in mind, although unfortunately it does not answer the question of the murders. “Let’s ask the refugees upstairs,” he says slowly. “They might know something. I don’t think we will find any more answers down here, regardless.”

They ascend the winding steps to the prisons, and then up two flights of the grand central staircase to the Great Hall. Since the last time he visited for a meal, Geralt has noticed the mood of the camp has deteriorated even further, with most people sitting in tense silence, protectively hovering over their possessions, and darting suspicious looks at other refugees.

“Let’s split up,” he says. “Jaskier, you ask those people on the far side, near the stacked tables – Pratima, talk to the women and children over there. I’ll take the men over here,” he says, nodding at a group of mages, who look particularly murderous.

“Greetings,” he says to the five men, and is not surprised when two of them immediately grab for the weapons at their waist. “Peace,” he says, holding out his hands in front of him. “I mean no harm. Want to help protect you, in fact. Heard there’s people getting killed around here, and I want to find out who’s responsible for it.”

“Suicides,” mutters one man darkly. Two of the others glare at him.

“Why would you want to help us, Witcher?” one sneers. Geralt thinks he recognises him from somewhere, perhaps a mage from Rissberg he had unfavourably crossed paths with. “We all know you’d be glad to see the likes of us dead. Piss off.”

Geralt’s fingers twitch in his glove. _I could use Axii,_ he thinks, weighing up his chances, _but if they are mages worth their salt, it would like be more trouble than it would be worth._

“Listen, I’m working for the Council, and they want you alive,” Geralt says. _Technically true_ , _he thinks, even if I’m not certain on the specifics of their reasoning._ “If they didn’t, why would they waste energy housing you here?”

The mages glance at each other again, and one of them clears his throat. “Havon was one of us,” he starts. “We all stick together. Know what the rest of you think, but – well. Someone has to do these things, or we’d never progress magic, never learn the things that need to be learned, never push the boundaries of what’s possible–” he notices Geralt’s unimpressed look, and the manic gleam in his eyes fades. He clears his throat again. “–ahem. In any case, Havon looked out for us, even told us we shouldn’t do those sorts of things anymore.”

“He experimented on thieves, is that correct?” Geralt asks. The others glare at him.

“He wasn’t bad, Havon!” a shorter one exclaims in a high, reedy voice. Geralt expects he is not far past two decades of age, his pubescent acne still scattered across his nose. “Some of them raided his home and killed his three dogs. He found subjects who deserved it, every time!”

“Extended torture and death may not be universally acceptable punishment for animal slaughter,” Geralt says mildly.

“Well, he still felt terribly guilty afterwards,” the short mage argues. “Told us all the story, cried about the dogs, and cried about the men too. Said he was filled with rage, but after the deeds were done, he just felt empty. Wondered if they’d had wives, had dogs of their own, families they were just trying to feed.”

“Still think it was suicide,” the first man says. He is tall and thin, and his cheekbones protrude at sharp edges from his face. “Emotional man. Kept muttering about his damn dogs. Not very manly to cry all the time. Had a mental break, if you ask me.”

“Oh, go hang yourself, Reginald,” the short man spits. “He was better than the rest of us. He was kind and strong and he looked out for everyone here with a bad reputation, whether we deserved it or not.”

“The evidence suggests–”

“Know anything else about how he died?” Geralt cuts in, already irritated by their argument.

“I was _getting_ to that,” the gaunt man says in an arrogant, annoyed tone. “The Council moved his body away as quick as they could, to avoid the news upsetting the camp, I assume. An idiotic assumption they could contain gossip in quarters this close,” he adds, rolling his eyes.

“Get on with it, Reg,” snaps one of the others.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Reginald continues. “I did a quick spell when nobody was looking, to sense the emotions of those who have passed. Dabbled in necromancy in my time, you know – nothing on what I used to be able to do, but it was the most I could manage with my magic levels right now.”

“ _And?_ ” the short mage says, although he looks curious despite his indifferent tone.

“ _And,_ ” Reginald says. “There was an overwhelming sense of guilt and self-loathing. Nearly threw up with it. Exactly the sort of thing you’d see from someone that yanked themselves,” he concludes, smiling proudly at his deduction.

The others look dubious. “I just don’t think he’d do it,” a man who hasn’t spoken before pipes up. “Not our Havon. He was a leader to us outcasts. Think he found purpose in it.”

“Well, if you all want to ignore the evidence, be my guest,” Reginald snaps.

“Thanks for your help,” Geralt interrupts, before they can begin squabbling amongst themselves again. He moves away, catching Jaskier’s eye across the room. They meet in the middle, Jaskier shaking his head in amusement.

“Good news?” Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow at Jaskier’s good humour.

“One mystery solved, at least,” Jaskier says. “First person I talked to about the murders said she could get me ‘foolproof magical protection artefacts’ that would ‘ward me from evil’. Want to guess what the artefacts were?”

“Hm. Bones of a sorcerer, recently stolen?”

Jaskier scratches his chin, and looks across the room at the refugees with an almost fond gaze. “Amazes me how commerce thrives no matter where you go. Told me it was only fifty crowns. A bargain, compared to the value of my person.” Jaskier snorts with laughter.

“Is that how much you charge these days,” Geralt says automatically, before he can stop himself. Jaskier throws him an odd look. _Fuck,_ Geralt thinks in self-recrimination, realising Jaskier’s good spirits had made him forget the months of tension between them. _Haven’t made those kinds of jokes in a while. Jaskier hasn’t taken_ _a lover in a while either, now that I think of it._

The awkwardness between them is interrupted by Pratima, who runs over exclaiming, “I found something!”

 _For all they claim to not be a child, they certainly do act as one,_ Geralt thinks, glad for the distraction. “What did you find, Pratima?”

Pratima lowers their voice to a hush, but still bubbles with excitement. “Some of the women over there were gossiping about the vampire lady, so I listened while pretending not to,” they declare proudly. “Apparently one of them _fucked_ a man about a week ago, and she _bled_ him from his _prick,_ ” Pratima gushes. “Only something went wrong, and his prick came _clean off,_ and _then_ he _hanged himself_ because he couldn’t live without it. They said the vampire was awful guilty about it, said it was a shame she was killed when she seemed such a nice girl.”

“Please don’t say all that in such an enthusiastic voice,” Jaskier moans, hiding his head in his hands.

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “Guilt.”

“What are you thinking, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, familiar enough with his friend’s process to know when he has an idea of what they are up against.

Geralt ignores his question for the moment, instead addressing Pratima. “The old woman in the dungeons,” he says. “Did she say anything about feeling shame over anything she had done in the past? Any mention of hurting other people?”

Pratima screws up their face in concentration. The effect is, Geralt admits to himself, rather endearing. “She mumbled a lot of things the night before she died, but it was all impossible to understand,” they say. “But one thing that was weird is – we all went to the baths in a group, in the evening, and she had scars all over her body. Fresh cuts, too. Don’t know if it was from battle or from ritual blood-letting, or what.”

Geralt nods to Jaskier. “I believe we may be chasing a hym.”

“Hymn?” Jaskier says, puzzled. “What, like an Eternal Fire song?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Spectre, feeds on guilt and suffering. Drives people to kill themselves, then moves on to the next target. Hard to catch, harder to kill – and the worst part is, it will have already possessed someone new.” He shakes his head. “It’s very rare – and I’ve never seen one move through victims so quickly. Must be its reaction to the Blight weakening it.”

“So, how do we catch it?” Pratima asks, vibrating with anticipation.

“Two ways to do it. We risk the host being killed while I fight it, or we trick it in order to vanquish it, no swords needed.”

“Trick it?” Jaskier says, tilting his head. _A mannerism he picked up from Pratima,_ Geralt thinks, annoyance nibbling at him for some reason.

“I don’t want to say anything further here,” he says, ignoring the irrational feelings bubbling under his skin and looking around the room. “Too many people listening, too much risk the hym is around. You’ll just have to trust me. In any case, we need to find who the hym is possessing first, find someone who has reason to be tremendously guilty over some act they’ve–”

Geralt freezes, thinking of Yennefer, sacrificing hundreds of young sorceresses’ souls for the chance to find Ciri.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Fuck. Alright.” He looks at his two companions, determined. “Jaskier, find Yennefer and bring her here – use whatever excuse you need. Pratima–” he turns to the doppler, and sees resolve shining from their eyes. If they want to help, so be it. Geralt will need all the help he can get.

“I need you to come with me…”

* * *

Geralt used to think Yennefer projected her aura more than a mile away. When she was in a foul mood, storms would gather, dogs would bark at the sky, and minor inconveniences seemed to strike villagers in bouts that they attributed to Nehaleni’s ill favour, rather than the ire of a visiting sorceress.

Such is the aura Yennefer exudes as she descends the grand staircase, glaring at Geralt with cold fire in her eyes and a snarl dangling from her upper lip. Behind her, Triss follows with her arms crossed, a more sedate but no less potent irritation.

“ _What_ do you _want_ ,” Yennefer hisses. “Your little _pet_ decided to _interrupt_ us in front of a very important spell–”

“Whatever dispute you have with me, put it aside Yen,” Geralt says calmly, all too used to weathering her storms. “We’re hunting a murderous spirit, and I need your help. Triss, I’d appreciate your help with it too – we’ve cornered it down in the crypts. Jaskier, stay here and watch Pratima–”

“I want to come!” Pratima exclaims. “You _said_ I could help!”

“It’s far too dangerous,” Geralt replies. “And I know I cannot trust you to stay here without someone ensuring you do so. Yen, Triss – with me.”

The sorceresses follow him, intrigued in spite of themselves. “As much as I am glad to help,” Triss says, as they descend the dark spiral staircase to the crypt, “I really feel as though you might have waited for a more opportune time. We were in the middle of projecting our spirit forms to both the Nilfgaardian and Temerian envoys simultaneously, that we might better share information regarding the spread of the Blight and plague–”

“Envoys whom I’m certain took us very seriously upon hearing your bard _screeching_ about needing me _at once_ ,” Yennefer adds scathingly. “If I did not know how fond you were of him, I would have turned him into a goat, so he might bleat to the fields rather than my ears.”

There’s a moment of silence as they reach the crypts, where all three of them realise that Yennefer likely no longer has the power left in her to do such a thing. Geralt takes a torch from the wall, and shines its flickering light towards the darkness. 

“In any case,” Triss continues hurriedly, “It is one thing to save the lives of people here – but already, hundreds if not thousands have died because we have _failed to act_ quickly enough or find a solution, and thousands more will die by the time we are able to find Ciri–”

Yennefer looks at Triss, bewildered, as the flickering torchlight dances on both of their faces. “You yourself said to me that we were doing our best–”

“And our best isn’t _good enough_ when so many people are suffering. What right do we have to feast on food every night and shelter those with magic while peasants starve to death the Continent over–”

“You’re being unreasonable – our lives have more value than theirs because we are the only ones capable of stopping this–”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Geralt interrupts, gesturing at the staircase. “Someone’s coming.”

The sorceresses take up fighting stances on either side of him, both holding jewelled daggers out in front of them.

They hear the footsteps grow louder and louder, and soon a great beast comes lumbering down the stairs. It towers a head above Geralt, a writhing mass of purple fur and snapping jaws that defy logic and reason.

“What in the name of–” he hears Yennefer exclaim.

“Shit,” Geralt grunts. “I’ve got this. Yen, Triss, stay back.”

He wields his steel sword – checking, twice, to make sure he is holding steel – and runs the beast through with it, piercing blubbery flesh and gaping cavities. The monster dissolves, writhing around his sword. Geralt retracts his blade, and the doppler shifts slowly into Pratima’s form as it melts to the floor.

“Geralt!” he hears Jaskier cry from the stairwell. “I – she just ran, I couldn’t do – gods, gods, is that Pratima?”

“You were _supposed_ to _watch her,_ ” Geralt hisses, grimly satisfied as he sees horror register on Jaskier’s face.

“No,” Jaskier moans. “No, no, I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t stop her, I, I,” his eyes flicker from Geralt back to the prone body of the doppler, and he races to their side. Their body is bleeding rather heavily from a wound, blood seeping out and staining their short white tunic.

“No,” Jaskier whispers again, and Geralt looks to Yennefer. To his surprise, however, a shadowy figure emerges not from Yennefer, but from Triss. The hym lurks looming behind her, a warped knight’s silhouette that flickers on the stone walls of the crypt in the orange torchlight. It rushes to Jaskier’s trembling body, and sinks into his flesh. Behind him, Yennefer and Triss exclaim in alarm.

“Now, Pratima,” Geralt orders. The doppler opens their eyes, their body shimmering slightly as the wound closes and the blood vanishes from their tunic.

“W-what?” Jaskier asks, voice broken.

“Begone, hym,” Geralt commands, holding out one hand in banishment. “You have been tricked, and so must meet your demise.”

The hym screams in fury, as it spills out from Jaskier’s body and melts into a smoking, bubbling black tar pool. When its screaming dies down, Geralt looks across at Jaskier and sees his friend’s eyes are rimmed red.

“Sorry,” Geralt says shortly. “Had to trick you to kill it.”

“Sorry?” Jaskier says, hollowly. He stands up, eyeing Geralt with an expression the witcher has never seen cross his face before. “Sorry?”

He’s angry. Geralt did not anticipate this, somehow.

“You knew it had to be tricked–”

“So you let me think I _killed_ Pratima?” Jaskier yells.

“I’m alright, you know,” Pratima says, sounding a little taken aback. “I agreed to Geralt’s plan–”

“You think this alright because she _agreed_ –”

“ _They_ agreed,” Geralt cuts in loudly, “They, a doppler, agreed to it, and if you could remember for a moment that _they_ aren’t a little girl, or a surrogate daughter, or whatever you think is going on–”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you,” Jaskier sneers. “Destiny hands you a family on a plate, but I have the audacity to find friends without the fucking Law of Surprise getting involved–”

Geralt growls. “I think you should leave.”

“You do, do you?” Jaskier says bitterly. “Funny how that always seems to happen.”

He turns and retreats, marching up the staircase with furious, powerful strides. Geralt curses, only to remember belatedly that he has company.

“Uh,” he says awkwardly, as Triss, Yennefer and Pratima stare at him.

“You know,” Yennefer says mildly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be that unfair, even with me.”

Geralt ignores her, sheathing his steel sword. “I didn’t realise the hym was in you, Triss,” Geralt says, changing the topic. “I brought Yennefer down here because I assumed it would be in her.”

“In me?” Yennefer asks. “Hyms feed on guilt, if I remember correctly. You thought I felt guilty over something?”

“Aretuza,” Geralt replies, the word vibrating as he utters it with a low growl.

Yennefer expression is almost pitying. “I have tried to live my life with very few things I feel guilty over,” she says, “and sacrificing a pond full of brain-dead fish to get Ciri back is certainly not one of them. If I face judgement for it later, so be it. I will not die without making sure she is safe and alive.”

“Lucky you were here then, Triss,” Pratima says, beaming up at the red-headed sorceress. “Since you were the one the hym was feeding on.”

Triss, for her part, looks simply tired. She exchanges a look with Yennefer, who looks confused, then surprised, then frowns with some new, more complex thought.

 _Fucking mind-readers,_ Geralt thinks, annoyed. “You were very good, Pratima,” he says, turning to the doppler. “Thank you for helping me with the hym.”

“It’s no trouble,” Pratima says, but for the first time the doppler seems rather melancholy. “I think you should apologise to Jaskier, though.”

Geralt sighs, knowing they are right. He is about to climb the staircase after Jaskier, when Yennefer calls to him.

“Geralt,” she says, hesitant. He turns back and sees that her expression is uncharacteristically hesitant. Beside her, Triss watches on with a look of tired resignation.

“Geralt, wait. I would like to have a word in private, if you would permit it. I believe…” she trails off, and exchanges a last look with Triss. “I believe it’s time we talked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aretuza is a fusion of the TV and book interpretations.
> 
> I might have slightly changed the abilities/rules of dopplers from canon, but all in service of the Giant Purple People Eater being the Monster of the Week.
> 
> As far as I can tell, there is no canonical afterlife in the Witcher (save for given interpretations of events in _The Lady of the Lake_.)
> 
> [To everyone who endured the gap between chapters, thank you so much! My semester is over now, so I hope to work hard on editing the rest while I have a bit more time! Thank you for sticking with me!]


	14. Feainn - Part Four

The cellar Yennefer has chosen for their rendezvous is damp, dark, and decidedly unromantic. It seems to be a room that was once used for storage, then reappropriated for a mage’s private altar room, before being abandoned to rats and spiders. A single beam of light from a small window illuminates a dark stain on the wall, while the rest of the room is cast in shadows. Old, moth-eaten tablecloths cover most of the furniture and misshapen wax lumps anoint the tops of old, dulled candelabras. A gargoyle glares at Geralt from behind cobwebs, its gnarled face seemingly sneering at him in derisive amusement.

 _Seems about right,_ Geralt thinks.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, and then stops. “I… know things must have been strange for you. A lot has happened, recently, and… much of it, I have not told you about.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts in assertion, leaning against an arched wall and folding his arms into each other. He doesn’t particularly feel like making this any easier on Yennefer than he has to.

“I’m… aware that Triss shared her mind with you, after Aretuza,” Yennefer says haltingly, crossing her own arms, “…and certain things came to light.”

 _Certain things,_ Geralt thinks wryly. “If that’s how you want to put it.” It’s hard to see the sorceress clearly in this darkness, but Geralt thinks he sees a tinge of red flushing her cheeks.

“Geralt…” Yennefer says slowly, almost beseechingly. “Geralt, we’ve had this conversation many times. You know I – we _both_ take other lovers. I hope you are not offended by that.”

“It’s different when they are _in love with you,_ Yen,” Geralt mutters. Yennefer, however, looks immediately, viciously, triumphant. Her violet eyes shine, focused and lethal as a predator on the verge of catching prey.

“ _You_ slept with Triss!” she hisses. “You hypocrite! And Triss thought she was in love with you then – but no, you’re always jealous when I take on another lover, even if you don’t _do_ anything about it–”

“Triss put me under a _spell_ –”

“That spell just creates a _suggestion_! She stopped using it and you _still_ slept with her!”

Geralt cannot deny that he found Triss alarmingly attractive, even without any magic. Infuriatingly, Yennefer’s access to his mind means that any attempts to lie or obfuscate on that point are futile.

“For that matter,” he says, deciding instead to change tack, “I don’t understand _why_ she slept with me. Did she just start – feeling like this now, or – when she was in bed with me…” he stumbles over the thoughts tying themselves into knots in his head, and growls in frustration. He pounds a table beside him with his fist. A cloud of dust mushrooms out from around his hand.

Both of them watch a candlestick, perched atop the table, shake from side to side and then finally clatter to the stone floor. The noise of metal on stone rings out for a long moment.

Yennefer huffs slightly, and then bends to pick up the fallen object.

“If it makes you feel better about any of it,” she says slowly, rubbing her fingers over tarnished silver, “She feels guilty about it all. When she – when we were all younger, she was envious of you, but she didn’t realise that was what it was. She knew that I had fallen madly in love with you, and she was furious, mad with jealousy. At the time, she thought that it was merely envy for the love we shared, and that she desired that depth of connection to another. But over the years, she realised it was a little more complicated than that.” Yennefer exhales again, and for a moment Geralt can detect a small, delicately affectionate smile on her face. “After you and I had last parted ways, she confessed to me. Said that she loved me, and that most of her actions against me had been borne of unrecognised... love. Twisted, jealous love, but love nonetheless. And I… I didn’t know what to do, Geralt. She is my oldest and dearest friend.”

In his mind’s eye, Geralt sees scenes realigning; memories of Triss and Yennefer together taking on new context. His memories of Triss, at Kaer Morhen, bubble to the surface, her actions now coloured by far different motivations than he could have imagined.

“So, you slept with her? Knowing she was in love with you?” Geralt can’t seem to keep the derisiveness out of his tone. “What did you think was going to happen here, Yen? Either you were going to hurt me, or her. What was the point?”

Yennefer cackles with mocking laughter. “Please, I’ve slept with plenty of people who were in love with me before. You’re only angry because this time, it’s someone you know – someone you thought was in love with _you_.”

Geralt growls. “No, you know me better than that. Answer the question, Yen.”

Yennefer glares at him, and slams the candle holder back down on to the table. Yet more dust is dislodged from the tabletop, and she starts coughing noisily as it swarms over her face.

When she recovers, her voice is quieter, and somewhat calmer than before. “Everyone I’ve ever slept with,” Yennefer says, “everyone I’ve ever spent time with, and none of them – not a single one – have ever come close to what I feel for you. I am always thinking of you in those moments, even when I _do not want to be._ It is not something I am – I _try_ to get over you. But I cannot. Because of your wish, even the _possibility_ has been taken from me.”

Geralt is silent. He remembers, too, the feeling of looking into a young woman’s eyes and feeling regret that he could never give her anything close to what she wanted. But unlike Yennefer, he has always seen that as nothing more than the strength of their love for each other.

“You know, they say a djinn always finds a way to make one’s wish into a curse,” Yennefer says, drawing her words out slowly, as though she is speaking to a simpleton or calming a growling beast.

 _If a dagger must be drawn out of my chest_ , he thinks, _I would prefer the thing to be yanked out quickly._

“The djinn…” Yennefer gestures with one hand, waving to some unseen entity. “They resent being used as tools, and so they always find a way to hurt their masters.”

“You think of me as a curse?” Geralt retorts. “Surely, we have proven enough times that we can walk away, Yennefer. Surely you know you are free to leave me.”

“But I am _not_ free,” Yennefer cries, upset once again. “No matter where I go, you appear there. No matter who I am with, my heart belongs to _you,_ even if I do not wish that to be the case! I am _incapable_ of feeling love for anyone else, and _you took away the chance for me to even try_!”

She breathes heavily, riled up by her outburst, and Geralt is taken aback. “You think loving each other is a curse?”

“One would certainly not call it a blessing,” Yennefer says curtly. Geralt feels as though she has slapped him. He should feel angry with her, and yet… in truth, he feels as though she is merely putting voice to questions that have always plagued him at the back of his mind, questions he has staunchly ignored. His actions in Rinde that day could well have determined the course of their entire lives, one they have no control over changing.

“How would we know the difference?” he asks. “Between what is real, and what is ordained by the djinn’s magic?”

Yennefer exhales softly, seemingly relieved by the genuine curiosity in his question. She leans against the back wall, shrouding her face in shadow. “Changing one’s fate is the hardest, most dangerous kind of magic there is. It has never worked, to my knowledge. The best that has been done is tricking Destiny, and even then – as I’m sure _you_ are aware – it often finds a way to backfire.” She shakes her head. “The only way I know of is to find another djinn, and ask him to undo the wish that started all this.”

“Then I’ll do it,” Geralt says. “I’ll find another one. I never wanted you to feel chained, Yen. I only wanted to save your life.”

“I know,” Yennefer says sadly. “I just wish you’d chosen another way to do so.”

They sit in silence for a while, and Geralt hears the wind howling at the windows.

“You should really talk to your bard,” Yennefer says finally, looking at him with an approximation of sympathy. “If you’d done that to me, with Ciri in the place of that doppler, I would never have forgiven you.”

“That’s why I didn’t do it to you,” Geralt says, hearing even as he says it how the words sound. Yennefer’s gaze sharpens on him.

“You’re far crueller than I, sometimes,” she says softly. “Take better care of him, Geralt. I still intend to live for centuries, and I will certainly not bear your company if you spend the rest of our lives brooding over losing him.”

“It’s _because_ I don’t want to lose him that–” Geralt starts, but these thoughts, too, get jumbled up in his head, each feeling chasing its opposite in hopeless paradoxes. His desire for Jaskier to be safe, and his desire for his friend to stay at his side. The two instincts war with each other with startling violence.

Yennefer continues looking at him, and her eyes turn shrewd. “Stop reading my mind,” Geralt snaps. “I told you not to do that anymore.”

“I wasn’t _reading,_ exactly. But I couldn’t block out your emotions sometimes if I tried. And anyway, you let Triss in,” Yen points out, waving one gloved hand in the air in exasperation.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies moodily, fiddling with a broken vessel made of clouded glass, “that was different. I was desperate to know everything. You kept me locked out, Yen. You’ve barely spoken to me in weeks. Our – whatever it is – aside… I could have been trusted when it came to saving Ciri.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Yennefer says, an admittance of guilt that Geralt did not expect. He looks at her, and sees genuine regret in the clench of her jaw. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I like to think that I am rarely cowardly, but – I was afraid of what would happen if someone found out about our plans. I couldn’t allow that to happen, and I couldn’t allow _you_ to distract me from it either. It was easier to just… ignore you, than allow you to ask questions. I know that was cruel, but I also knew we’d recover from it.”

“The ‘curse’, huh?” Geralt quips. “I suppose it has its uses, then. Unconditional love.”

“Unconditional passion, maybe,” Yennefer mutters, “as I have to say, you’ve sometimes done things that make me feel things _very_ abstracted from love.”

“Isn’t that what all lovers feel?” Geralt says, quirking an eyebrow – but the sentence is uneasy, drawn taught with the weight of their conversation. _Of course, I wouldn’t know,_ Geralt thinks. _I wouldn’t know what normal lovers feel at all._

He thinks suddenly of Jaskier, of how he had treated him with the hym. _I know that was cruel, but I also knew_ _we’d recover from it,_ Yennefer’s voice echoes.

“I should really apologise to Jaskier,” he says, almost to himself. Yennefer gives him a sharp, piercing look, and he shrugs slightly. “I was cruel to him, tricking him in order to catch the hym. And… just as you knew that I would forgive you for dropping everything to find Ciri, I knew he would forgive me for tricking him for the sake of saving others.”

Yennefer is still looking at him with that shrewd, slightly squinted expression, and Geralt flinches. “What?”

“Nothing,” Yennefer sighs, her voice carrying a whisper of exasperated fondness. “You’re right, you need to go apologise to your bard. But I – I need to make it clear that I’m not going to come back to your bed, not until… circumstances change.”

Geralt studies her, notes the way her body is held in a carefully neutral pose. “You think Triss – all the mages – might truly die from this.”

“It is not a matter of _might,_ but a matter of _will,_ unless something is done,” Yennefer snaps, grimacing. “And – I have given you many, many years, Geralt – we have had our happiness together, yes? Perhaps it is time I gave time to Triss, too. Just in case.”

 _Just in case,_ Geralt thinks, his entire being rebelling at the thought of what that really means.

Geralt looks up to the small window high on the wall, the howling wind and rain outside making the frame thud sporadically against the wall. He recalls a memory of Jaskier staring at such a storm, wailing about the latest in a series of romantic misadventures, and remembers a strand of conversation. _It’s ‘pathetic fallacy’, Geralt. The feeling as though the weather reflects the turbulence in your very soul._

“Just to be clear,” Geralt says eventually. “I wouldn’t care what you looked like. Or the terrible things you’ve done, or the people you’ve been with.”

She turns to him with sadness writ upon her features.

 _Her eyes are so beautiful_ , he thinks.

“But with the wish you made… if we had met under different circumstances,” Yennefer says simply, “Perhaps you would not feel that way. Perhaps you would see the terrible things I have done, and kill me as you would kill any other monster.”

“Never,” Geralt swears.

Her soft smile expands a little at his reassurance, before she turns back to the window.

“Some time ago, I heard a song about us. I expect it was the result of Jaskier’s tale-spinning. I don’t even know if the song was his, or someone else’s – doesn’t matter, I suppose. But one of the verses was about your wish, and how without it, we might never have found each other. And ever since I heard it, I cannot seem to get the thought out of my head – even now that the tune and words of the song have slipped from my mind as easily as sand through my fingers. I cannot recall the day, or the exact place I was, or for what purpose I was there - but I can remember how I felt hearing that verse.”

Geralt’s heart seems to have suddenly disappeared from his chest, and he feels short of breath. His first thought is that this is what Jaskier once said that falling in love felt like – pain, panic, the heart-racing feeling of uncertainty over something important. But the emotions are too laden with tragedy, and have nothing at all to do with lust.

“There’s nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?” He knows even as he asks it, that it is hopeless. Yennefer has always wanted him to fight for her – wanted people to prove their love for her. But she isn’t hiding under the pretence of independence, or anger, or haughtiness. Her expression is bare and vulnerable, and most strikingly, honest. Most of all, Geralt feels that the sorceress is suddenly older and wiser than before, as though she has changed overnight from one person to another without his permission. Changed into someone he isn’t entirely familiar with, someone whose thoughts and moods he has not yet mapped.

“No,” Yennefer says, and just like that, Geralt feels the death knell of finality descend around him. He searches for the right words to reply with, as his heart and mind struggle against one another. His thoughts are furiously repeating that Yennefer might give him another chance when the curse is broken, that she and Triss might tire of each other, that Ciri might be found and everything could change once again. But his heart – his heart seems latched on to something beyond reason, something that grieves a thing which cannot be retrieved.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says finally. He doesn’t know what else to say. Nothing seems adequate, or appropriate. Yennefer, however, seems to understand.

“So am I,” she says, her eyes darting away from his, and focusing instead on some space behind him. Geralt feels the space between expand infinitely. He wishes irrationally that they had carried out this conversation in bed, where he could at least touch her skin and take comfort in her warmth. It seems unfair that this Blight would take so much from him, and now this, too.

“I _have_ been overly harsh on Jaskier,” Geralt says suddenly. Yennefer looks at him, thrown by his odd tone.

“What?”

Geralt smiles at her. It’s a fragile offering to trust her with, a newborn bird that could easily be crushed.

“Feeling heartbreak like this – really puts Jaskier’s theatrics into perspective. Can’t imagine feeling like this every other week. Think I’d rather be a celibate than experience that.”

Yennefer is startled into a bark of laughter, one she stifles immediately – and then, catching Geralt’s eye and making sure he is party to the joke, continues.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Yennefer says – and if Geralt were not intimately acquainted with her, if he had not been allowing her this very moment, he might not notice the way her previous softness is quickly submerged under her newly derisive smile – “Jaskier doesn’t _actually_ love those women. I promise you, whatever we have is more real than _that._ ”

Geralt shakes his head. “I told him, I worry he’ll end up alone in his grave if he continues on like that. You’d think he could find _one_ girl to keep his attention long enough to marry her.”

“Mm,” Yennefer hums noncommittally, crossing her arms and looking back at the table full of books behind them. “Speaking of Jaskier, I _do_ think it’s time you go and mend his feelings. With the air cleared between the three of us, I hope Triss and I shall escape further hym infections. The last thing I need is you and your bard miscommunicating enough that we attract another one.”

Her words are cold and indifferent, but Geralt can see the same careful reserve in her expression as she held when she was talking around Triss’ demise. _She cares about him,_ he realises, _more deeply than she would care to ever admit._

“Thank you, Yen,” Geralt says, with utmost sincerity. _Triss, and Ciri, and me, and now Jaskier. All she does right now is for the happiness of those closest to her._ “For everything.”

Yennefer’s stoic expression flickers. The barest hint of a shy smile graces her face, a mellowed expression that Geralt has rarely, if ever, seen. “I’ll find her, you know. This spell – it’s unstoppable. And Triss and I – the mages still have time left. We’re not dying anytime soon.”

“Even so,” Geralt says softly. He moves off of the wall, tentatively edging forward. When Yennefer does not flinch, he embraces her, burying his nose into her velvet hair. Her familiar, floral scent is back, stinging at his nose with tart sweetness. “Don’t leave me without saying goodbye,” Geralt breathes into her ear, and Yennefer’s arms come up around him. Her warmth is a sorely-missed comfort, and Geralt wants to bathe in it. For once, sex is far from his mind – instead, he has the briefest flash of his mother, holding him against her chest when he was a young child.

“I won’t, Geralt,” Yennefer says, and then the moment has passed. They separate, and Yennefer’s face resumes its cool, indifferent expression. “Besides,” she says wryly, “our fates are tied. I don’t think we could die independently, even if we tried to.”

* * *

Geralt finds his best friend hunched over a desk in the library. Jaskier’s head is tilted directly over an open volume, his hands holding up his head on either side and shielding his face from view. Geralt stands there for three long, silent minutes, but the other man does not move at all.

The witcher decides to take his time looking around at the library, while he debates the right words for an apology. The wide room seems colder now, emptier than he remembers it. He misses the way that sunlight used to light up the wooden shelves, and saturate the colours on the spines of the books. With the unending storm circling them, the colours are instead muted and the light shaded with grey. Even the candles that have been lit along the main table in the centre of the chamber seem dull, their yellow glow barely extending a span away from the wicks. The scent of old paper, and the faintest traces of incense, have been replaced by the smell of damp and mould.

Geralt thinks that there’s something cruel about the way that their sanctuary has betrayed Jaskier as quickly and easily as Geralt had done.

“Hello,” Geralt says warily, stepping forward.

“Hello,” Jaskier replies, without looking up. His tone is void of the usual emotional inflections that let Geralt know how badly he’s fucked up.

 _Very,_ very _badly, then._

Geralt draws out a chair from the table, and sits down next to his friend. Both of them are far too old for the kind of childish, stubborn silence that falls between them, and yet it stretches out between them anyway. Geralt feels as though he is being surrounded by sticky arachnomorph mucus, his ability to move or speak taking an inexplicably staggering effort.

“I…” Geralt says, breathing deeply. The word hangs in the air for a moment, and Geralt feels the importance of his next sentence swelling awkwardly between them. “I owe you an apology. I needed you to feel terrible guilt in order to trick the hym, and the plan relied upon your being left out of its workings. I wish it could have been otherwise, but – if we’d had more time, perhaps I should have asked someone to trick me instead – although I would be more likely to see it coming–”

“I know why you did it, Geralt,” Jaskier says heavily, his eyes still trained upon the book in front of him. “I understand perfectly. You needn’t trouble yourself with more apologies.”

Geralt hisses air out through his teeth in exasperation, throws his left arm out over the table, and leans further towards Jaskier in a vain attempt make his friend look at him. “You sound as though you’ve recently been at a funeral, Jaskier, so I feel I very much need to trouble myself. I shouldn’t have said those things about Pratima either, but I was concerned…”

 _Why did I say those things?_ Geralt thinks. Rationally, he knows Pratima means no real harm to Jaskier, nor to anyone. There is no danger in their friendship, or in Jaskier’s doting.

He runs the memories back in his head, and feels a familiar dark anxiety crawl underneath his skin.

“Concerned?” Jaskier prompts. “Concerned I was getting too attached to, what, a _monster_?” His eyes harden with anger and his mouth turns down into a snarl.

“Jaskier, look at me,” Geralt begs. His friend does, head turning up slowly. As soon as he sees Geralt’s face, the righteous fury in his eyes melts into simple confusion.

“I was in the wrong,” Geralt says, because it’s easier than analysing the roiling mass of emotions under his skin. “I don’t think of Pratima that way. I apologise,” he adds gruffly. 

Jaskier’s expression softens instantly, but the wariness in his eyes grows. His friend reaches out to Geralt’s outstretched arm, and lays a hand over his wrist. Geralt thinks briefly of Triss, and wonders if Jaskier is attempting to read his mind, too. The implied intimacy of that connection makes him recoil, and he ducks his head away from Jaskier’s probing gaze.

“This isn’t like you,” Jaskier says, with an undercurrent of twinned mirth and concern. “The doppler prejudice, for one thing, but apologising to me for your behaviour has me utterly terrified. If you hadn’t so gracelessly stumbled your way through the apology, I’d suspect you of being Pratima yourself, come to mend our friendship.” Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt sees Jaskier give him a faint smile, and the tightness in his chest eases.

“I spoke to Yennefer, before I came here.” Geralt says abruptly. Jaskier’s grip tightens momentarily on his arm, but he doesn’t otherwise interrupt with the kind of tasteless, pithy remark that usually follows such a statement. “She apologised herself, for leaving me in the dark over – over certain things, so perhaps I was forcibly reminded that it is not pleasant to have things happen to you and be kept in the dark about why they are happening.”

“I see,” Jaskier says. Geralt decides that he very much prefers their usual conversational rhythm, where Jaskier spills words from his lips like water from a fountain and Geralt occasionally throws in a heavy stone to momentarily break the flow. Being the one expected to fill the silences is not a role Geralt likes _at all._ He wants to tell Jaskier about Aretuza, and the sacrifice, and the relationship between Yennefer and Triss _–_ but the time isn’t appropriate, and he is likely not permitted to share half of those secrets.

The sticky silence spreads between them again, and then Jaskier exhales softly and removes his hand from Geralt’s wrist. Geralt misses the contact immediately, and feels as though he has misstepped somewhere.

“I actually came here with the intention of reading more books,” Jaskier admits, his voice sliding into a careful reconstruction of his usual carefree tone. “You know, I might as well be useful, and I _am_ an academic. If anyone other than me finds something useful in these dusty old tomes, I will consider it a professional disgrace.”

“I’ll help,” Geralt says hastily, drawing a book off the stack. Now that the hym has been slain, the thrumming sense of purpose has slid off of his back again, and he feels as though he is scrabbling for a real use in Ban Ard. “Would have thought we would have gone through the whole library twice by now, though.”

Jaskier shoots him an incredulous look. “You barely get through one book a day, Geralt.”

Geralt scowls. “They’re not exactly _light reading,_ bard.”

Jaskier grants him another small, slight smile. “You should see some of the books we hav- had at Oxenfurt.”

Geralt inwardly curses that Jaskier had to mention one of the few topics that would stifle any possibility of humour. Another silence descends between them as they peruse their chosen volumes, the space between them only a little less tense than before.

He wishes the library had a fireplace of some sort, if only so that the crackling flames could remedy the stark silence. Perhaps whoever built this place thought an open fire near books was too much of a travesty, and had the chamber heated through some other means – whether they were magical or architecturally based, Geralt didn’t know. He only knew that this particular room was always warmer than the rest of the castle, even on a day like this one where the weather was unseasonably cold.

He focuses on the book that he has chosen at random from the stack, but finds the prose frustratingly archaic and the content drier than a noonwraith’s skin. To his surprise, however, he finds that the history of Clan Tuirseach and their many exploits contain sudden mention of a witcher, too, a witcher with a name not dissimilar to his own. He gets lost in the story of Torgeir the Red and Gerd the Witcher, inseparable companions that sung and fought and drank together. Gerd, it seemed, became the Jarl’s protector and dearest friend. He reads about their adventures, but also about the two of them hunting together and co-hosting lavish feasts. He reads of how Gerd made a home on the cold Skelligan Isles, and abandoned his wandering witcher’s path on the open road.

_“But t’was no more fitting end for Torgeir the Red than the end he was shown; for O when at last that grand keep fell, by the hands of those Nilf fiends, the company of men endured as long as they could; but even the greatest of Bear-Kings could not survive such a weight of stone and rubble as fell on that day. And so the great Jarl was buried, with his company of men, that they might ride together into Valhalla as they rode together on this plane.”_

For some reason, someone has underlined a few of the next sentences on the page. The inky lines are old enough to have faded into a light brown – Geralt guesses a student of Ban Ard must have made these markings, long ago.

“ _And his dearest Bear-Witcher, his companion in this life and the next, was buried at his side, as was his wish. For as Torgeir had once said, ‘We have found each other, and we shall not now be separated; for his skin contains my heart and my own contains his, so that if one of our bodies were ever torn asunder, I fear that both would stop beating.’”_

At the last line, he thinks of Yennefer; of how she had talked of their deaths being shared. _If one of our bodies were ever torn asunder, I fear that both would stop beating._

But then when he reads over the passage again and imagines the Jarl and Witcher combing the Skelligan Isles together, he thinks of Jaskier.

“Anything interesting?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt feels his face heat. He flicks over the page he has been staring at, and grunts.

“No. Nothing useful. Just a history of jarls.”

If Jaskier notices the catch in his voice, he doesn’t comment on it.

* * *

Each day falls into the next, and as the week progresses Geralt’s friends fall into new places around him. Yennefer, at least, is now on much more pleasant speaking terms with him. Triss’s fiery anger and passion has evaporated away into a quiet sort of embarrassment. The red-haired sorceress is too proud to completely avoid him – doing so, Geralt imagines, would be an admission of guilt for an act that Triss does not want to believe is wrong. Jaskier is the trickiest of all, reserved enough that Geralt knows something is still amiss between them, yet friendly enough that he cannot call the bard out on it. Worse still is the fact Geralt knows he is responsible for this particular mood, although he has no idea what has caused it.

Only Pratima treats him in the same way, their cheerful greetings each day as unguarded and generous as ever. The exception to this rule comes when, one particular morning, he finds the poor doppler walking in through the castle doors drenched from head to toe.

“What on earth happened?” Geralt asks, squatting down to their height and frowning at them as they wring out their wet plait onto the stone floor of the entrance hall.

“Er,” Pratima says, embarrassed. “It’s a long story.”

“Intriguing. I have time, as it happens, between my breakfast meal and appointment with yet another pile of books.”

Pratima glowers back at him. “Well, don’t tell the sorceresses, but some of the refugees living on the lower levels got restless and started exploring. Turns out they found a stockpile of alcohol hidden in one of the storage rooms – most of it was rancid, but some of the bottles were well-sealed enough that they were still drinkable. Anyway, one thing led to another and soon enough there was an entire gaggle of drunks roaming the corridors.”

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks instantly. He is reminded of Pratima’s story of their previous encounter with a denizen of the dungeons, and feels his blood begin to boil.

“No, no, I’m fine. As soon as I realised what was happening, I transformed into a fat old man so they’d leave me alone if I ran into them. But one man – he was particularly drunk – was stumbling around and muttering himself, so I followed him. I thought he might cause trouble of some kind – I mean, half of these people are mages and the other half are… powerful in different ways. You know what happens when you get dangerous people drunk? Bad things, in my experience. So, I followed him, and he somehow managed to find a barricaded side-entrance to the castle yard, get it open, and walk right out into a storm.”

“At which point you returned to your chambers upstairs, so kindly negotiated for you by Triss, and had a good night’s sleep,” Geralt concludes sarcastically.

“Yes, of course,” Pratima chips. “And I absolutely did not get locked outside in a storm because of my idiotic desire to save a foolish, ranting drunk.”

Geralt stares at them, and Pratima flinches. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m mostly dry now anyway. You know my clothes are actually an extension of my skin, so I can just sort of – change the texture until the water runs off it. It’s a technique I could probably use for armour or something, actually–”

Geralt grabs the doppler and hoists them up onto his shoulder. Their skin is icy to the touch. “Bath. Now.”

“I just _said_ I’m not _even that wet,_ ” the doppler protests, and then adds, “although I have to confess, the thought of a bath is extremely appealing – I _knew_ these sorceresses were hiding private bath chambers somewhere, I bet they look like a fucking cathedral or something–”

“Language,” Geralt rumbles automatically, and then winces. _Isn’t this the very thing I told Jaskier off for?_

Geralt carries the chattering doppler all the way to the fifth floor. With Triss and Yennefer’s influence, Pratima’s presence had been allowed higher up in the castle, but the floors with the bath chambers – floors Geralt and Jaskier were allowed on – were still forbidden to them. Since defeating the hym, however, Geralt’s own standing seemed to have also been raised with the Council, and he imagined that nobody could object to Pratima’s presence as long as he was their chaperone.

“I knew it!” Pratima crows, as they enter the bath chamber. “See? This place is enormous. You know the entrance hall wouldn’t smell like a pig farm if you allowed everyone up here to bathe. The amenities you give the refugees are just _appalling._ ”

“I’m not in charge,” Geralt replies automatically. “I’ll wait outside. I trust you won’t get up to any mischief?”

“No need to wait outside,” Pratima replies cheerily, and with that the doppler’s form shifts and morphs outwards, skin and clothes bubbling over into a larger, lithe form. The doppler’s skin is tinged greyish-blue, cracked and crevassed in every place like a volcanic canyon. Compared to a human, their arms and legs are too short and their torso and head too large. Most strange of all, however, is that Pratima’s distinctive dark hair and braid has disappeared entirely, leaving only a bald, crackled scalp. There are no distinguishing features on the body mass that would indicate a particular sex – but Geralt estimates, measuring against his previous memories of hunched and hulking dopplers, Pratima _is_ likely younger than most.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Pratima says, a note of uncertainty in their voice.

“No,” Geralt says firmly. “Of course not.”

Pratima beams at him with a slightly lopsided mouth, and Geralt finds himself with an armful full of doppler. “It means so much that I can be myself with you, really,” Pratima sighs. “I know – I know I’m ugly, but I’ve never had a human friend that wouldn’t run screaming away from me before you and Jaskier.”

“Jaskier has seen your true form?”

The doppler seems to ignore the question for a moment, letting Geralt’s surprised words echo between the stone columns. Instead, Pratima sighs as they slip into the heated waters of the bath chamber. Their skin starts to give off steam, but as they give no sign of distress Geralt does not move from his position near the entrance.

The pool is a small container, only large enough for five people at most. Geralt considers it, and realises that despite the small scale, Pratima is right – it is luxurious, and it is being wasted, sitting unused on the fifth floor. He does not know why it would not be possible to chaperone groups upstairs, even if the Council feared the others wandering the higher floors. Then again, perhaps it was merely a tactic to hoard the best of everything for the mages alone. That _was_ a distinctly mage-like trait, one that doubtless persisted even during a war.

And the chamber _is_ spectacular. The tiles that line the columns, floors and walls are pale brown stone shot through with inky black. Above them, a painter had decorated the ceiling with painted stars, enchanted to twinkle and seem as realistic as the night sky itself. It was possible that more bathrooms like this existed in other places within Ban Ard’s keep. He had indulged in this particular washroom numerous times over the weeks after Triss had pointed it out to him, and Geralt had never run into anyone else while he was using it – even Jaskier.

“He asked,” Pratima says after a moment, and Geralt refocuses on their conversation. “He came to me after that mess with the – you called it a ‘hym’, yes? – and asked me to show him my true form. I was a little nervous, but he said something like… that both of you had seen all sorts of things on your travels, and would never judge someone for what they looked like, only how they acted.”

Geralt has a moment of cognitive dissonance while he imagines Jaskier, noted admirer of classical beauty, saying such a thing. Then again, he had always been notably indiscriminate with his tastes in women. ‘All are equal in the alcove’, Jaskier would say, dragging princess and peasant alike into his bed, pock-marked mothers and flawless young maids alike.

“He’s very kind, you know,” Pratima notes, more quietly. “I don’t think anyone has ever been so kind to me. And when he saw what I looked like, he didn’t flinch at all, he just hugged me and said that I didn’t have to disguise myself around him, if I didn’t want to.”

 _A noble gesture Jaskier, if impractical,_ Geralt thinks, imagining the two playing around in the corridors together, and subsequently being discovered and attacked by a passing sorceress.

“Is it easier, being like this?” Geralt says. “I never thought to ask. But you said that your abilities were being affected by the Blight.”

“Oh,” Pratima says. Geralt watches as they splash in the water, washing various parts of their body. “I suppose it’s like putting on clothes. You know, you have clothes that are comfortable and let you move easily – that’s how I feel in the form you know best. And then putting on other forms – that feels like putting on a tight leather belt, or a corset. So it’s no trouble being in that smaller form, but if I’m in others, sometimes it starts to hurt. But I get tired of even my favourite form, after a while. Like you’d get tired of wearing the same clothes without washing them! They start to smell something terrible.”

“I suppose.” Geralt thinks of the wide assortment of vestments Jaskier procures during their travels and thinks to himself that the bard would have a very hard time being a doppler. “Still, you should be careful.” He thinks of the body of a doppler he’d seen on the streets of Lyria, struck down by a terrified throng of humans who had glimpsed its true form.

“I _know_ that,” Pratima says, their sing-song voice echoing from wall to wall. “You don’t live very long as a doppler if you’re not careful. When I was a babe – quite a long time ago, by the way – my parents told me to be careful of humans, and elves, and dwarves – and most of all, witchers!” The doppler laughs delightedly, and splashes a wide spray of water onto the tiled floor near Geralt.

Geralt almost asks what happened to Pratima’s parents, then thinks better of it. “Hm. We’ll make a witcher of you yet. Going off to rescue civilians in the early hours of the morning? Just make sure you set a good price, in future.”

“A doppler witcher. Imagine that,” Pratima laughs. Geralt watches them play in the water for a while longer, and thinks of a young girl at Kaer Morhen, playing in mud. _Ciri and Pratima would have been fast friends_ , he thinks.

He doesn’t dare to entertain the hope that they might someday meet. He does not trust the world to be kind enough to allow for that.

* * *

That evening, Yennefer turns up in the library. Jaskier, sitting across an armchair with his legs dangling over one arm and his head dangling over the other, leaps up to his feet immediately.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, flustered. “Uh, Pratima. We had a thing. Stovetop. Somewhere.”

Yennefer gives the bard the kind of smile that Geralt usually associates with murderers about to monologue to him while he’s tied up in a chair.

“It is always _very_ intriguing to me, Jaskier, how speechless I can render such a renowned wordsmith as yourself… but then, I suppose even _you_ must not be immune to my charms.”

Jaskier’s face darkens even further, and he delays only a second before storming out of the library. Pratima looks nervously between Yennefer and Geralt, head tilting in an unspoken question, before they follow after the bard.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Geralt complains.

“I didn’t _make_ him leave, _he_ made his own assumptions,” Yennefer says haughtily. “I’ve been very nice to him, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure,” Geralt grunts. “Why are you here, Yen?”

Yennefer looks at him, and Geralt feels his heart tremor in his chest. She’s beautiful, and he misses her – misses having the right to be with her. But he also knows that Yennefer is resolute in her decisions, and that her being here – and not somewhere more useful, either to the Council or to Ciri – means something is amiss.

“Perhaps I missed your company,” Yennefer says, raising one eyebrow at Geralt and crossing her arms pointedly. “Is that so difficult to believe? ‘Why are you here, Yen’,” she says, mocking his low grumbling voice, “I had quite forgotten how unsociable you are.”

“I’ve known you too long to not know when you have an ulterior motive for something,” Geralt replies, smirking. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine.”

That hews a little too close to their previous heartfelt conversation, and Geralt regrets saying it immediately. Yennefer’s eyes glimmer slightly, and she moves to the library window. Outside, storms thundered and rage as it had done all week. Geralt wondered if he was imagining the unhealthy pall on her face, if it was just the dull lighting or the Blight taking a visible toll on Yennefer’s health.

“These storms,” Yennefer murmurs. “I’ve been wondering if I caused them with the ritual I cast at Aretuza. Summer storms are common on the coast, but they’ve spread right across the Continent. To have miles and miles of land blanketed by this endless rain…”

“Isn’t it just another part of the Blight?” Geralt says reassuringly. Something sparks in his memory, and Yennefer turns to him with an almost violent speed.

“What was that?”

“What?” Geralt asks defensively.

“That, the memory you just glossed over.” Her eyes bore into his own, and Geralt feels himself growing irritated.

“If we aren’t – together, or whatever it is we are or aren’t, surely I have the right to tell you to _stay out of my fucking head._ ”

Yennefer, as usual, ignores him. “That memory – someone telling you about this, months ago. Think back on it, Geralt. It slipped from your mind before I could pick it out.”

Geralt frows as the memory of a voice whispers to him. _In Feainn the storms will come. In Lammas, plague will spread._

“The prophetess,” Yennefer murmurs. “You mentioned you encountered one on your travels.”

“I am sure, then, I also mentioned I could not remember anything of use.”

“But you _did_ remember just now,” Yennefer points out, and her eyes are gleaming with the kind of enthusiasm that only ends with Geralt extremely satiated, or extremely annoyed. “I know your mind, Geralt, far better than Triss – far better than anyone. If you let me in – if you’ll allow me into your mind, I think I could extract the memory.” 

_At least she’s asking this time,_ Geralt thinks. He hesitates. “Triss mentioned something about it being… intimate.” He doesn’t know how to ask something like, _would that be alright with Triss? Would I be alright with it? Are you?_ He doesn’t know where the new lines are in this new country, where Triss has taken the rug out from under him and upended a cloud of dust into his face.

“No – we – our minds are already linked, intimately,” Yennefer replies, scowling as though such a thing is an insult to her. “To read minds that are linked as deeply as ours requires barely any magic at all. It’s like breathing to me.”

 _No wonder she never stops,_ Geralt thinks, newly annoyed, but mollified by Yennefer’s admission of the strength of their bond.

“For a task like this, however, where I dig deeper – I will need to be close to you. But we don’t need to have _sex_ , if that’s what you’re asking.”

Geralt thinks to himself that only Yennefer would say something like that while staring straight into his eyes, with no embarrassment around the situation at all. “Fine. Do whatever you want. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told Triss – if I thought the prophetess had said anything useful...”

“You don’t know what may or may not be useful, Geralt,” Yennefer says sagely, and she sits on top of Geralt’s lap without any warning, her arm coming over his shoulder as she splays herself over him on the armchair. 

“Yen,” Geralt growls warningly. Sparks of his desire for her are already flying fast, her hair and skin filled with a sorely-missed scent he longs to nuzzle into.

“Close your eyes,” Yennefer commands. “Cast your mind back to the prophetess. Do not think of anything else, except those memories, and don’t flinch back from me when I enter your mind.”

Geralt suddenly has the feeling he’s the equivalent of a blushing virgin, being penetrated for the first time on her wedding night. He wipes the thought from his mind and focuses on his breathing, centring himself as he would for a meditative rest. He recalls the way her white clothing seemed unnaturally bright against her skin, how the colours of the tent material bathed her face in a reddish hue. He recalls the tea leaves, the taste of that strange drink upon his tongue. _Xierra,_ he remembers, and Yennefer’s mind rushes into his own.

It is not dissimilar to being thrust uncomfortably through a portal, except this time the sensation is focused solely on his brain. He feels as though the inside of his skull is being bathed in ice water, or being exposed to the rushing wind outside.

 _Focus, Geralt,_ Yennefer says from inside his mind. Her voice is much louder and her presence more impatient than Triss’ had been.

He feels Yennefer wind around his mind and sort through the memories from Gulet. The rush of visuals and sensory memories makes him feel dizzy, and he flinches.

_Slow down, Yen._

_I’m just being efficient._

Geralt tries to concentrate on the memory that matters, Yennefer steering his mind to focus on certain things. _No, not the clothes, or the tea. Her words, Geralt. What did you hear?_ He feels his thoughts instinctively straining against her mind, and forces himself to relax. The sensation is unpleasant, as though something is moving in the wrong direction inside of him. But then he relinquishes control entirely, and Yennefer grasps onto the strands of memory, weaving them together as a seamstress might construct a scrap of fabric.

He hears Xierra’s soft chanting, as quiet and reverent as a prayer.

_“In Imbaelk, the stars will fall. In Birke, smoke fills the skies.  
In Belleteyn the fields will fail. In Blathe, the seas will rise.  
In Feainn the storms will come. In Lammas, plague will spread.  
In Velen, the mountains will roar. In Saovine, rivers run red._

_And last, in Yule, the flame of life shall all at once give out,  
And the earth shall be burdened with souls of the devout.  
And the gods shall point the way towards the setting sun,  
And darkness will consume them all, until the song is done.”_

Yennefer rushes back out of his head, and Geralt cringes as the unpleasant water rushing sensation seems to scour the inside of his brain. He opens his eyes, gasping as though he had just resurfaced from a trip underwater.

“Gods, Yen.”

But Yennefer has already left his lap, and is storming towards the desk in the middle of the library. She grabs a stray piece of paper and, finding Jaskier’s quill and ink, furiously scratches down the verse from Geralt’s head.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, when she is done. “Hours and hours in this library reading nonsense, and you didn’t think that this might be remotely useful?”

Geralt strides over to the table next to her, and peers over her shoulder. “Well, now that you’ve written it out, it does seem… eerily accurate.”

Geralt thinks back to the past few months. Comets falling from the sky, the plague, and floods, and famine. And now, the storms ravaging the land for days.

“The gods shall point the way,” Yennefer murmurs, “towards the setting sun… west? The gods shall point the way westwards… a trail of temples, perhaps… but _which_ gods would matter? The most westward point on the Continent would be Bremervoord, but if you are including Skellige…” She runs her fingers up and down the sheet of paper, biting her lip and thrumming the fingers on her free hand along the tabletop.

“We’ve been looking for the gods all along,” Geralt interrupts. “Just as Sedna said.”

Yennefer’s agitated movements suddenly stop.

“Yes,” Yennefer says grimly, turning from the piece of paper to look at Geralt. “Lammas approaches, and we need to get _you_ to Dol Blathanna.”

“What?” Geralt takes a step back, surprised, and slightly distracted by the closeness between them. “Me? I thought – you said you were going to send one of your best sorceresses, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be slow, Geralt,” Yennefer snaps. “Of all the people in the Continent, how many saw Oxenfurt go up in flames during Birke? How many have had a god speak to them directly? This isn’t a vaguely worded portent, general advice for the masses. I think this prophecy is meant for _you._ ”

“What?” Geralt says, nonplussed.

Yennefer nods, her eyes filled with the restlessness that her body has abandoned. “You. Our best chance of finding Dana Meadbh is to send _you_ to look for her. In truth, I’ve had the thought before that if we sent just anyone, the gods would not appear. Something about the whole thing seems… preordained, as much as I hate to admit it.”

Geralt instinctively revolts at the thought of his fate being determined by some higher power.

“Now you know how I feel,” Yennefer mutters, clearly skimming emotions from the surface of his mind again. “We should…” She looks out the window towards the rain, and sighs. “Blasted weather. I can never tell what time of day it is, but my stomach tells me it’s likely time for the Council dinner.”

“Grand,” Geralt says sarcastically. “I’ll leave you to tell Philippa about our leaving south.”

Yennefer laughs a little, and rolls her eyes. “ _I_ know you’ve barely been more than a research assistant here, but just you watch. Phillippa will throw a fit – she’ll tell me how useful a witcher is to have around, and well – I must say, after the hym incident–”

“Perhaps I should borrow Jaskier’s journals to note down this momentous occasion,” Geralt says in a dry voice. “ _July fifteenth, Yennefer called me useful._ ”

“As I was saying,” Yennefer says haughtily, “convincing Philippa to lend us resources may be difficult. Portals are one of the most draining pieces of magic we perform, and I am in no shape to create another one any time soon, even with Triss’ help. If Philippa refuses us, we may have to make the journey on horseback.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, thinking wistfully of Roach.

Yennefer’s face clouds over for a moment, and Geralt frowns at her as she stares vacantly at the rain. “What?”

“It’s – it’s nothing,” Yennefer says distantly. “I had a moment where I thought I heard Triss, but I couldn’t make it out clearly; she’s too far away. It is of no consequence. I’ll speak to her later.”

Geralt can see Yennefer carefully wipe the concern from her face, as practiced as a courtesan putting on a layer of make-up over a bruise.

“You don’t have to do that, Yen. Even if we’re not together. _Particularly_ because we’re not like that – you don’t have to hide from me.”

Yennefer flinches, and regards him with surprise. “You know, sometimes I’d accuse you of possessing enough magic to read _my_ mind.”

Geralt shifts in his seat. “I doubt I have any magic at all, if the Blight has affected you this much. I haven’t had the need for the Signs in a while, since you’ve been around.”

“Hm. No, it’s not that you don’t have the need. You’re scared to try,” Yennefer observes sharply, eyes sympathetic and shrewd at once. Geralt feels exposed under her gaze.

Defiant, he looks at a candle on the table and makes the sign for Igni, extending certain fingers out while drawing others back into his palm. The candlelight sputters out.

“Still got it,” he mutters. Yennefer breathes out in relief, and then shakes her head as though she had never been worried at all.

“Obviously. As I expected. Signs are _extremely_ basic magic, barely require any energy at all…”

Geralt huffs as Yennefer explains to him exactly how rudimentary his magical power is. He stares at the candle, considering. Before, he would have had the flame sputtering back to life without a second thought, a casual flick of his fingers and the barest flicker of a thought. But after so many months witnessing Yennefer conserve her magic, it seems the same mentality has seeded within him. Something in him warns against overusing his magic, in case when he needs it most, he will find it gone.

“…Shall we?”

He catches the tail end of Yennefer’s monologue, and blinks at her outstretched arm. “Mm,” he murmurs, and accepts her helping him to his feet. There is a moment where their hands linger together, clasped tight – Yennefer’s gloved hand held in Geralt’s own bare one – before they separate. Neither of them comments on it.

Yennefer resumes a rapidly spoken lecture on the fundamentals of magical theory as they walk out of the library and traverse the castle labyrinth to the mages’ dining hall. Geralt lets the sound of her voice wash over him without interruption, paying more attention to the sound of her voice than her words. He thinks, very suddenly and loudly, that he loves her.

Yennefer’s monologue stumbles. Her hand reaches out, stops, and then falls back to her side. Instead, she offers him a simple smile, and resumes talking. Two words echo in his head, spoken through the connection that has not yet faded.

_I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter (and others) I’ve retconned Triss’ relationship with Geralt to be slightly less Hugely Problematic than it is in the books/games.
> 
> A lot of ideas for Yennefer’s thoughts on their relationship are inspired by the questline ‘The Last Wish’ in _The Witcher 3_.
> 
> Yennefer is referring to Priscilla’s song in _The Witcher 3_ , also recorded in the book ‘Ballads and Hymns’. The verse she’s referring to is the following:  
>  _“I know not if fate would have us live as one  
>  Or if by love's blind chance we've been bound  
> The wish I whispered when it all began  
> Did it forge a love you might never have found?”_
> 
> There is a scrap of paper in _The Witcher 3_ with a ballad about Torgeir and his companion, Gerd (‘Ballad of Torgeir the Red’). The rest I have sort of based on Alexander and Hephaestion.
> 
> ‘All are equal in the alcove’ is an expression that Zoltan quotes as being a typical Jaskier expression in _The Witcher 3_ quest ‘Broken Flowers’.
> 
> You may notice that I’ve used ‘July’ here, and ‘summer’ etc. in other places, while the prophecy refers to different fantasy seasons – that’s because the humans observe the same sort of calendar as we do, while the prophecy/chapter titles refer to the Elven calendar.
> 
> This chapter was rewritten enough that it is now two chapters! (A lot of talking heads needed space to work through their feelings.) So, the final part of Feainn (but this time for real, really, I promise,) coming soon.


	15. Feainn - Part Five

The Council’s dining-cum-war room is filled with the usual rabble of gossiping mages. They exchange glances and whispers as soon as Yennefer and Geralt enter together. Contemptuous, half-cocked smirks are thinly veiled behind wine goblets and gloved hands, and it seems to Geralt that even the portraits along the walls are wearing expressions of pointed disdain.

“This is what I was _trying_ to avoid,” Yennefer breathes, glaring back at the Council members with unguarded fury.

Geralt’s eyes, meanwhile, immediately track to Jaskier. The bard is sitting in their usual place at the table, the end assigned to those obviously deemed unimportant. He looks uncharacteristically small in stature at the moment. His figure is slumped down in his seat and he is surrounded by empty chairs. He catches sight of them both and attempts a smile of acknowledgement, but it comes out as more of a grimace. Geralt doesn’t fail to notice the speed with which his friend then looks back to his plate. Nor does he miss the subsequent violence carried out on the boiled potatoes by Jaskier’s fork.

“Yennefer,” Philippa Eilhart calls across the wide room. The Council’s chatter ceases immediately, and they stare at the pair now with unguarded interest. “Will you not bring the witcher with you to this side of the table? I believe it’s long past time that I had a proper conversation with our guest.”

Yennefer doesn’t bother to hide her scowl. She storms towards the other side of the room, Geralt trailing after in her wake and studiously ignoring the stares levelled at them from all sides.

Despite living within the castle for weeks and dining at the same table, Geralt has not spoken to Philippa once since his arrival. It occurs to him now that perhaps this was intentional; although by Yennefer’s hand or Philippa’s own, he isn’t sure. The leader of the Lodge – now the Council – is resplendent. She is wearing a gold cuff, one adorned with long spikes circling outwards that glisten in the candlelight. It is not quite a crown, and yet Geralt imagines she chose the accessory very deliberately to resemble one. Her silken blindfold is the same crimson as her dress, and has tassels that are intertwined with her dark plaits.

“ _What is it_?” Yennefer hisses. The other sorceress does not even turn to her or stand to greet them, leaving them both awkwardly standing next to her at the head of the table. Geralt supposes there is no point in the politeness of eye-contact with someone who is blind. Nevertheless, the move feels calculated to make them feel more like servers than equals, and draw even more attention to their discussion.

“Now now, Yennefer, we are amongst civilised members of society,” Philippa says airily. “I must say, I didn’t expect a single night with your wolfish lover would have you forgetting your manners so easily… but then again, you’ve never been particularly adept at the study of etiquette.”

“I can see _one_ of us has certainly forgotten their manners,” Yennefer fires back. “And you seem to forget that Geralt saved this place from a hym, not to mention the weeks he’s been cooped up in that library researching for the Council.”

“From what I hear, Yennefer,” Philippa says, and her lilting cadence is now underscored with steel, “the wolf certainly found a way out of its coop.”

There is silence for several moments, and Geralt feels the tension between them escalate. He wonders if they are now speaking to each other with their minds. But then, there was something intimate about letting one’s thoughts be infiltrated, and he doubts that Yennefer would allow Philippa that sort of access to her head.

“Since both you and Geralt are holding tongue in place of contradiction,” Philippa says coolly, “I assume you both want a favour from me of some kind. I am very curious as to what that favour might be.”

Yennefer arches an eyebrow in reply. “If anything, I am doing you a favour. I am turning the wolf in your coop out into the cold.”

Philippa laughs at that. Her eyes are hidden behind her chequered blindfold, and so Geralt cannot see how sincere her amusement is. He remembers Philippa’s eyes as being stunning things, large and expressive, the most beautiful feature on an already perfectly sculpted face. It was no wonder Radovid had chosen to gouge them out.

“You want to send Geralt away from here,” Philippa surmises. “An interesting turn of events, given I hear you two have recently been… _un_ -estranged. Or was that simply a rumour? It is so hard, these days, to tell truth from fiction, with all the gossip being spread by bored mages.”

Her smile is as sharp as a dagger, and Geralt is sure that Philippa has Yennefer on a back foot.

“A shame, then, that you surround yourself with so many people prone to _unreliable_ conjecture.”

“Would that I knew the truth in the first place, so I did not have to rely on conjecture at all.”

Yennefer’s scowl deepens, and she glares down at the other sorceress. Philippa, for her part, merely picks up her fork and knife and resumes cutting into her roasted radish. Geralt supposes she must be able to see things in front of her with magic. He wonders if the picture in her mind is fully formed with colour, or merely approximations of sounds and shapes in the way he himself is able to sense with his eyes closed.

“Fine,” Yennefer spits out finally. “We both know you know. I’ll tell you the rest, in exchange for letting Geralt leave – and granting him the means to do so.”

Philippa continues with her radish. Three whole mouthfuls of the vegetable are swallowed before she deigns to resume the negotiation.

“A deal, then. I cannot deny that Geralt’s presence here has created a good deal of caginess among our guests, hym or no. I relent. Although, I must say, Yen – you’re losing your touch for skulduggery.” Philippa’s smile widens, her lips turning up at the edges with vindictive glee. “I imagine that long ago, you used a spell to shield your witcher’s mind from casual probing. Unfortunately, you never did the same for his human companion.”

Yennefer and Geralt simultaneously turn to stare down the long table at Jaskier, who is swilling a glass of wine and staring thoughtfully at a painting on the wall. They exchange the briefest look of alarm, before turning back to Philippa.

“I _knew_ there was a reason you allowed these two upstairs, you conniving bitch,” Yennefer hisses.

Philippa’s smile fades on her lips, and her face grows still. “Careful, dear piglet,” Philippa whispers. “Remember that you have betrayed the rest of the Council with your secret-keeping, and that without us you are _nothing._ ”

Yennefer bristles immediately, but Geralt lays a hand on her arm. With the Blight rendering her all but powerless, her usual disregard for consequences is newly dangerous. He is also acutely aware of the many ears straining to pick up on their conversation.

 _Calm down, Yen,_ Geralt thinks as loudly as he can. To Philippa, he says, “I thought you reserved your magic for fighting this Blight. Taking thoughts from the head of one of your guests does not seem like an action the rest of your Council would approve of.”

“Please,” Philippa snorts with derision, and despite the blindfold Geralt has the strong impression of having eyes rolled at him. “Counteracting subterfuge in my camp is one of the most vital uses of magic I can think of. It is only a shame that nobody seems to trust the bard enough to tell him anything truly useful.”

Geralt cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt at that.

“I did, however, manage to glean that you two took a little excursion to Aretuza, a trip that must have cost quite a bit of power between you and Merigold. And the need for secrecy implies I would not have approved of it.”

“It was _necessary_ ,” Yennefer spits out. “More than that, I will not say here. If you wish to reprimand me, do it in private.”

“Mm,” Philippa agrees, idly swallowing another mouthful of roasted vegetable. “I suppose I do not wish to gain the same taste for public humiliation that so enraptures dear Radovid.” She places down her cutlery neatly next to her plate, and turns at last to face her two guests. “Fine, Yennefer, I will allow Geralt to leave this place freely – but you and Merigold must stay and atone for your crimes. You know well I cannot abide conspirators, traitors, and liars, and you are all three.”

“He will need all the help he can get,” Yennefer argues. “There is a prophecy, proof that these gods have some connection with the Blight. _This_ is what the Council should be spending resources on!”

“So you’ve argued since your run in with that self-proclaimed goddess,” Philippa cuts in. “But if we are dealing in prophecy and Destiny, here, then the witcher will succeed in his search whether or not he has help. I am more concerned with making sure _we_ are not wiped out in the meantime.”

Yennefer looks taken aback. “So, you do believe in this? Before, you said you didn’t believe we’d find the gods at all. You said we’d have better luck – and I believe I am quoting you correctly – ‘stabbing pikes blindly along a shoreline, in the hopes we might kill a whale’.”

“Whales get beached,” Philippa replies. “And if there was any time for one to do so, it would be now, when their powers are weakening.” She turns her face to Geralt, exhaling sharply in something akin to resignation. “Besides which, the White Wolf has shown himself to be favoured by these gods. Perhaps the hand of Destiny guides his path, perhaps Nehaleni once graced his cock. Whatever the case, I agree that he should be the one to go.”

Yennefer studies her carefully. “You want him out there as your pawn,” she accuses. “With me here to command him into whatever square on the chessboard you chose.”

“I want him as a tool to fight this Blight, yes,” Philippa says with waning patience. “And do not pretend that you would not done the same, Yennefer of Vengerberg, were you in my place. This is not politics. This is war.”

“If you will not allow him the aid of a sorceress, allow him a portal for passage at the least. The month is growing short, and even if they ride day and night – in these storms, no less…”

“I cannot spare the magic,” Philippa replies sharply. “Certainly not with you and Merigold having wasted away your power on a jaunt to the other side of the Continent.”

“ _Eilhart_ -”

“Halfway,” Philippa says abruptly. “I shall spare the magic from several lower mages to send him halfway there. It will get him close enough to make it in time for Lammas.”

“If the plan was still to send one of us, you would not think twice about using a portal,” Yennefer snarls accusingly.

“Plans change,” Philippa says shortly, “as has my estimation of how quickly our resources are draining. Take this victory for what it is, Yennefer. If you stood in front of Radovid or Emhyr, and had just been revealed as a traitor, I could do far worse. Be grateful your lover is being allowed to leave this castle with his head. Be grateful that I believe the best place for those with questionable loyalties is under my watchful eye, and not cast into an open grave.”

This last bit Philippa says at a slightly louder pitch, loud enough that those gathered nearby the three of them flinch. Geralt has no doubt that those ten or so people will have informed the rest of the Council of Philippa’s threat before the night is done.

Yennefer, however, scoffs. “I _am_ grateful – grateful you have enough common sense to see how much you need us both.”

“Anyone can be replaced,” Philippa says smoothly.

Yennefer frowns, and she suddenly darts her head around the hall with uncharacteristic agitation.

“Where’s Triss, Eilhart?”

Philippa’s smile turns sharp and dangerous again. “I was wondering when you would notice. If I had known you favoured both ends of the broomstick, Yennefer, I might have taken more interest in you years ago.”

Yennefer snarls, abandoning all attempts at diplomacy. “ _Where is she_?”

“Safe, unharmed,” Philippa replies casually, turning back to her food. “I really don’t know why you care so much for her, you know. You know better than any that she can be a duplicitous, double-crossing whore.”

Yennefer tenses. “No. Not this time.” Her voice is certain, but Geralt can hear the tremor in her heartbeat.

“Well. _I_ know better than any how love can blind you to betrayal,” Philippa says, and her airy tone is blemished by a streak of dark, bitter anger. “But it is as you say – this time, at least. I have merely sent her on a diplomatic mission to Kovir.”

“You claimed you couldn’t spare the power to open portals that far away,” Yennefer hisses, her fists clenched and radiating anger.

“I cannot spare it, as we are using that power to carry refugees back here,” Philippa says coolly. “I am sorry to say that the value of ten Kovirian mages, starving, trapped and surrounded by freezing storms, is of more value to me than making sure one _witcher_ has a shortcut on a road he is perfectly capable of walking.”

“You _know_ how dangerous it is to send someone so far, when our power is so low – and Triss! How is she to create a portal to come back, all on her own?”

“She will borrow the power of the mages she rescues, of course. If she had told me that she was low on power, perhaps I would have sent someone else – but, tragically, I only learned about your little adventure afterwards. Unlucky.”

“Unlucky indeed,” Geralt says quickly, to cut off Yennefer before any sparks – metaphorical or otherwise – start flying across the space between the two sorceresses. “But now that you know the circumstances of Yennefer and Triss’s magic depletion, I trust you will be more careful with their lives. Exceptional mages are in short supply.”

“And trust in even shorter supply,” Philippa breathes. “Do not presume to tell me how to manage my people, Witcher.”

“Merely pointing out the obvious. Seen too many rulers make bad calls over petty squabbles.”

She tilts her head, black hair spilling forward from behind her ear onto the table before her. “Witcher, you should leave as soon as possible in order to make it to Dol Blathanna. I will arrange for a team of mages to open a portal tomorrow morning. I trust you have no objections?”

Geralt’s voice is a low, monosyllabic growl. “No.”

“Excellent. We have a room at the top of the Eastern tower we use for _approved_ portal travel – it has several powerful runestones buried under the floor that make it the best place for channelling magic. Come there tomorrow before dawn, and we’ll get you on your way.” The sorceress smiles once more, and picks up her knife and fork. “If that’s all, the two of you should get back to dinner. I imagine this might be the last hearty meal you see for quite a time, Witcher. Although I hear Dol Blathanna is not so badly scorched by the Blight as some other places on the Continent.”

“Maybe it’s the goddess’ favour,” Geralt suggests.

“More likely to be the valley climate,” Yennefer mutters under breath.

“Perhaps, as part of your important mission there, you might find out.” Philippa’s tone is as pleasant as a Beauclairian courtier remarking upon the weather. “I am sorry to see you leave us. We owe you for your work with the hym, and I will not forget it. Sadly, if Yennefer wants you gone…”

Her lips make a faux-sympathetic pout, and Geralt grabs a firm hold of Yennefer’s arm once again before she can react.

“…There is nothing I can do. Our doors are open to you, Geralt of Rivia, should you choose to return.”

“Thanks,” Geralt says shortly. He tightens his grip on Yennefer’s arm as he leads her away.

“Oh, and Yennefer – we still have much to discuss, when you have a moment,” Philippa says to their backs. “Perhaps, when Triss returns, she might join our conversations.”

Yennefer doesn’t bother with a reply. The two of them move through the dining hall, and Geralt moves swiftly towards Jaskier. The bard notices him and looks up with half a mouthful of pumpkin, frowning slightly.

“Grab some food, as much as you can carry out,” Geralt whispers into the bard’s ear. “Meet me in our chambers. We can’t talk here.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide, but he nods in the same small, private gesture he had made when he and Yennefer had entered. Geralt strides back to the doorway, and leaves with Yennefer by his side.

“Unbelievable,” Yennefer spits as soon as they are far enough from the dining hall. “She wants to punish me for Aretuza. Sending Triss away, sending you away, making sure I know she holds the power – making sure we’re all fucking obedient soldiers. That hypocritical bitch.”

“I don’t like the Triss situation any more than you do,” Geralt replies tightly. “But you can’t afford to offend her, Yen. Between the Blight and Radovid…”

“I can handle myself,” Yennefer snaps.

“I know you can, but I still have a right to care,” Geralt retorts. “And you cannot pretend that your independence is as easy to defend now that you can barely summon a mage-light.”

With visible effort, Yennefer’s jaw clenches and she resists from firing back. They walk together in stiff silence to the landing, the sounds from the dining hall echoing down the stone corridors from behind them.

“You _must_ be careful out there, Geralt,” Yennefer finally says in a low voice, as they reach the grand staircase. “It’s pandemonium. The streets are filled with plague carriers, the peasants are angry and starving, and the religious cults are more tyrannical than ever before in their pursuit of mages and non-humans.” Geralt feels the smallest tendril of concern brush against his mind.

“I’ll be fine, Yen.”

“I have a right to care,” Yennefer replies archly, and when Geralt turns to look at her, her tight expression has relaxed by the smallest measure. Geralt reaches out and clasps her hand in his, just once. He breathes in, nervousness pounding in his chest.

“Listen,” Geralt starts, “Yen. You don’t have to listen to Philippa’s threats. We can find a way to get Triss safe, and then we can all go to Dol Blathanna.”

Yennefer’s smile vanishes. “It’s not possible,” she says mechanically. “There’s just no time, Geralt.”

“Yen–”

“As much as I wish I could leave this place,” Yen hisses, “Philippa has trapped me quite neatly, at least until Triss returns and I can think of something else. I can’t risk her life – and frankly, I don’t know that I’d be of much use to you anyway, with my power so drained.”

“It’s not about usefulness,” Geralt protests. He cannot stomach the idea of leaving Yennefer when the lives of sorceresses are in such delicate balance.

Yennefer looks at him, and at once the tension her body been holding melts away. She looks up at Geralt with something halfway between love and pity, and then hugs him tightly.

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia,” Yennefer whispers. “No matter what happens, you will always be important to me. But…”

She trails off, Triss’s name hanging unspoken between the two of them. Geralt feels the biting, empty feeling in his chest again.

“I understand,” Geralt says woodenly. “You need to keep Triss safe. Staying under the Council’s protection… it’s the right move.”

“Not to mention,” Yen says, smiling with maternal softness, an expression she only ever wears when thinking about one person, “here, we have the resources to study where Ciri might be, and how to bring her back from wherever she is.”

Geralt frowns. “Is the spell not enough? I thought the whole purpose of Aretuza was to gain power enough for the spell to be unstoppable.”

“In finding her, yes,” Yen says shortly. “But once we locate her, and travel to wherever she is, we have the problem of bringing her back. The retrieval could well take as much power as the first spell, and if we are not prepared for that, we could end up trapped in the same predicament as she.”

“Hmm.” Geralt feels the hopelessness of the situation deepen, the obstacles to happiness grow even more insurmountable.

Yennefer exhales, and the faintest traces of amusement grace her features. “If we are going so far as to believe in prophecy, then we should believe in fate too. And if Ciri is your destiny, then all three of our fates are tied.”

“Yeah, I know,” Geralt murmurs. “We’ll find her.”

“I’m sure of it.”

Their exchange a loaded gaze, before being interrupted by an enthusiastic knocking at the door. Jaskier swings it open a moment later, carrying a bottle of wine and pulling an incredible number of bread rolls out of his pockets, shirt front, and – incredibly – the space within his puffed sleeve.

“You never fail to surprise, bard,” Yennefer says drily.

“Oh, sod off,” Jaskier says with only a tinge of embarrassment. “I got very good at carrying food in my pockets around as a young, starving artist. Lots of tavern fare thrown at me in the early days, and bread is by far the best food to pick up – it’s dry, it’s light, you very rarely end up with nasty oils dripping down your seams. I must say, I always had a soft spot for secret midnight feasts. Back at the Academy–”

“ _Not_ now, please,” Yennefer groans.

“We’re not here for fun,” Geralt adds firmly. “Sit down. We’ve got a lot to fill you in on, and not very much time to do it.”

Geralt tells Jaskier everything that had transpired since their trip to Aretuza. As he talks, Yennefer finds goblets hidden deep within dusty cabinets and pours each of them a generous serving of wine. Curiously, Yennefer doesn’t interrupt his retelling once – not even to object when Geralt mentions the eels, or the soul-magic – and Geralt finds himself discomforted by her silence. Perhaps she is feeling as guilty as he is over failing to inform Jaskier of the various goings on. The pile of stolen food begins to dwindle, the three of them picking off bits and pieces for their makeshift dinner as they talk.

“So,” Jaskier concludes. “Philippa has been picking at my brain without my consent, Triss has been exiled, and we’re all leaving on the morrow to go and find a goddess. Did I get that right?”

Geralt blinks. “Actually, no–”

“I’m not going,” Yennefer rasps, speaking for the first time in a while. “I have to stay here.”

The two men look at her, confused by the way her breathing is as laboured as if she had just run up the slope of Kaer Trolde.

“Everything alright, Yennefer?” Geralt asks.

She scowls. “Small bit of magic. Put up the same veil over Jaskier’s mind as I put on yours years ago, so people can’t just go around scraping off surface thoughts without your consent. Well, without real power, they will be able to of course – but it will certainly deter any anyone affected by the Blight.”

“I thought you read Geralt’s thoughts without real effort all the time,” Jaskier says, perplexed. His expression turns quickly to horror. “Oh, bloody hell. Have you been reading my thoughts too?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Geralt and I have a connection. And you speak as if I’d want to go anywhere near your brain. I’d rather hurl myself into a pit of ghouls than voluntarily submerge myself in _your_ melodramatic mind.”

“Not sure whether to be relieved or insulted,” Jaskier mutters. “But – you’re staying here? While Geralt leaves?”

“As I said,” Yennefer drawls. She doesn’t expand any further.

The bard puts down his goblet resignedly. “Let me pack our things then, before I drink enough to confuse my lute strings with my laces.”

“You don’t have to – nobody is forcing you to come,” Geralt says confusedly. “In fact, I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

To his surprise, both Yennefer and Jaskier give him incredulous looks.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jaskier says shortly. “If Yennefer isn’t going, well – someone has to make sure you don’t end up strung up naked at the base of a tree, shorn bald, your swords molten down for earrings and your hair sewn into a lovely Toussaintois wig.”

“Specific,” Geralt grunts, while Yennefer coughs slightly into her glove to hide a snort of amusement. “But I – what about Pratima?”

A series of emotions pass over Jaskier’s face. “You’re more important to the fate of the world,” he says finally. “Look, we can discuss this later. But right now, we need to plan what we’ll need for our missions to succeed – both finding the gods, and finding Ciri. If Yennefer isn’t coming with us, then we need a way to stay in contact.”

Yennefer sobers immediately. “The bard is right.”

“Why do I get the feeling you thought ‘for once’ very loudly?” Jaskier mutters. Yennefer ignores him.

“Mages have various methods of communication over long distances. Megascopes, I’m sure you’re familiar with – but they are rather impractical to travel with if one does not have the ability to store them magically in a pocket of – well, suffice to say they will not work in this scenario. I thought of using magic mirrors too, the handheld sort, but to be frank, we have been so reliant on megascopes in recent decades that we never replaced the mirrors that broke – which was often, by the way, as the little ones are fragile and had a tendency to break every time voices were raised in conversation–”

“Mages? Shouting?” Jaskier says in feigned shock.

“–in any case, Philippa has tight control on our supply of them, as the Council is now using what few remain in place of megascopes. And unfortunately, there is no good alternative.”

“Tell us the bad news, why don’t you,” Jaskier mutters.

Yennefer glares at him. “ _Luckily,_ I happen to have made something years ago which should work to keep us in one-way contact. You won’t be able to talk to me, but I will be able to locate you. And if I can locate you, I can contact you when I have collected enough magic to do so. I have to find the damn thing, but I know it’s somewhere among the possessions I fetched from my lodgings in Vizima.”

“Philippa allowed you to travel to Vizima?” Geralt says, perplexed.

“Weeks ago, yes. You underestimate the value of my possessions. In exchange she has requisitioned what she could for the Council’s uses, of course. But this particular one is useless to her, because it… well, it only works between Geralt and myself.” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows at her, and the faintest traces of pink stain her cheeks. “In any case, I’ll give it to you before you leave tomorrow.”

“So,” Jaskier concludes brightly, “we have a tracking device, half a bottle of dead children’s souls, and a prophecy about oncoming and unstoppable doom. And now, all we have to do is find a few gods, who might _possibly_ point us in the direction of a solution to this world-ending crisis, and Ciri, who is gods-know-where-but-almost-certainly-not-anywhere-safe. Thank goodness you have _me_ to help _,_ or I’d think this was a lost cause.”

“Your heroic services are, famously, invaluable,” Geralt says drily.

Yennefer sighs, waving her wine goblet in the air dramatically. “On that note, I believe I’m being crowded out of the room by the bard’s ego.”

She stands, and finishes the last of her wine in a single gulp before placing the vessel atop the cabinet it came from. “I’ll see you two tomorrow. I’ll take you up to the tower room at dawn. Get some rest, you two – you’ll have a long day of travelling on foot, and I daresay more than a month lying about in a library will not make that journey any kinder.”

“Wait,” Geralt says hastily, confused by her sudden departure. “Yen–”

“Tomorrow, Geralt,” Yennefer replies, not unkindly.

He watches her sweep out of the room, and feels his mouth go dry with something like panic.

“Go,” Jaskier says softly. “Who knows when you’ll see her again, Geralt.”

“No,” Geralt sighs. “No, it’s – it’s not my place.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow again, and he scratches at his beard. “Not your place? What do you mean?”

Geralt realises suddenly that, despite everything he just recounted to his friend, Jaskier still has no idea what has happened between Yennefer and himself. He has a vivid recollection of Triss’s memory – of the two sorceresses in bed together – and wonders how to begin to explain this tangled knot.

“Uh,” he says. _A fine start, Geralt._ “Yennefer and I are… not seeing each other. Currently.”

Jaskier frowns. “You seemed to get along perfectly well after Aretuza. Better than before, at the very least.”

“No, it’s not – she’s with Triss, now,” Geralt says shortly. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to witness Jaskier’s reaction to that piece of news. He feels his face heat, and doubts very much that it is the result of the wine cup before him. “Can we please talk about something else?”

They sit in silence for a moment, and Geralt wishes that Yennefer were back in the room, the three of them teasing each other as light-heartedly as they once did.

Eventually, Jaskier speaks. To Geralt’s regret, his friend has not chosen a lighter topic.

“Why did you think I would stay here, and let you go to Dol Blathanna alone?”

Geralt sits with the question for a moment, staring down into the dark liquid in his cup. The goblet is dull and tarnished, and he wonders how many decades it had been since someone had last used the vessel to drink from.

“Pratima needs you,” Geralt says. “And you’re safer here. Why would you choose to go out into the chaos outside these walls?”

“I’ve always rushed head-long into death for the sake of a good tale,” Jaskier says archly. “You think I’d miss out on meeting with the gods themselves?”

Geralt fixes him with a glare. “You exaggerate those stories enough that you cannot claim the need for accuracy. Why not stay safe so that you are alive to tell them?”

“I’d be with you,” Jaskier says simply. Geralt stares at him, and the bard seems to colour slightly. “No, really, Geralt – and when have you ever let me come to harm? Well, other than the djinn – and the drowners, and that one time with the – when have you ever let me come to _permanent_ harm?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, “listen–”

“If you truly do not want me with you, I understand,” Jaskier says in a rush. “I can stay here, although I have half a thought that life might get distinctly less comfortable for me around here without you as my chaperone.”

“No,” Geralt says, aghast. “No, Jaskier. I never _want_ you to leave,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Jaskier looks taken aback. “Why is it, then, that you never seem to object when we part ways?” he asks, after a moment.

“Because–” Geralt pauses, searching for the right words. “Because I understand that living at my side is one of the most perilous things someone could do. Because I want you to live a free life – because I want you to _live._ ” Now that he has started talking, it is almost as though he cannot stop in his rush to articulate to Jaskier how he feels. “I want you to – to be happy,” Geralt says, watching as Jaskier’s eyes widen in amazement. “I want you to marry, and have children, if you so wish. I want you to live on a great estate, filled with the finest wines and foods, surrounded by people who make you laugh, and who applaud every song you ever sing.” Jaskier exhales shakily, and Geralt can feel his heart hammering. “And – and sometimes I push you away deliberately, because part of me thinks you would be safer if you hated me. If you saw me like everyone else did. If you saw dangerous things as monsters, rather than as friends.”

Jaskier makes a helpless noise in his throat, and Geralt suddenly finds himself embraced by the bard, who is shaking. _He’s crying,_ Geralt realises with confusion.

“You absolute moron,” Jaskier says shakily, voice muffled somewhere in Geralt’s shoulder. “You complete and utter fool. You singularly, damnably idiotic buffoon.”

Geralt rumbles a deep laugh, bringing his arms up around Jaskier, cupping the back of his head in his hand. _I’m glad I’m not wearing gloves,_ Geralt thinks absent-mindedly, feeling the soft tufts of Jaskier’s hair between his fingers. He strokes his head placidly, as he might stroke the fur of a cat.

Jaskier gently pushes Geralt away, so that they are an appropriate distance apart again. He wipes his eyes on the sleeves of one embroidered silken sleeve, and then scowls up at Geralt.

“You always think you know best,” Jaskier starts. “And I’m sick of it, because – when it comes to the people closest to you – you _don’t_.” He glares at Geralt, the effect slightly ruined by the tears shimmering in his eyes. “You don’t _know_ what I want. You don’t know what’s best for me. I’m _not_ the foolish, nervous wreck I was at eighteen – and even then, I had some idea of what makes me happiest in this world.”

“Then – tell me,” Geralt says haltingly. “What… what makes you happiest?”

Jaskier’s scowl mellows into honest bewilderment. “You don’t know? Even now?” He laughs unsteadily, running a hand through his hair where Geralt’s own hand had just been. “Damn it all. Geralt, you truly are rather offensively oblivious.”

Geralt frowns. “Writing songs,” he guesses. “Singing your songs, and hearing crowds cheer your efforts.”

“ _Being at your side,_ ” Jaskier exclaims. “Travelling with _you_ , passing time with _you,_ surviving the most unspeakably terrible odds and laughing with you about it over an ale in the tavern afterwards.” He laughs. “Writing songs, yes, of course – but who do you think those songs are _about,_ you dolt?”

Geralt feels as though the world has tilted sideways – or perhaps, as though it has righted itself after a very long time of being slightly skewed. He thought Jaskier had feared him, stayed with him out of obligation, or bitter commitment to seeing Geralt’s tales first hand, or perhaps out of having nowhere else to go. But Jaskier _wanting_ to be at his side – that is something else entirely.

“Me?” Geralt asks, testing the new reality out on his tongue. “I… make you happy? Happier than the uncomplicated life of courtly lovers, ample wine and coin?”

Jaskier laughs, turning from Geralt and throwing a collection of his vests into a small pack. “I wouldn’t have thought so either,” he admits, “but – I tried that life, for years, and something was always missing.” He turns back to Geralt and wags his finger at him. “It’s not that you _don’t_ make me utterly miserable at times, of course. The hym affair should be example enough of that,” he sniffs. “But…” Jaskier continues, his gaze shifting from Geralt, staring out their window absently. “I suppose life is a little more complicated than either you or I wish it to be.”

He looks at Geralt again, smiling tentatively. Geralt feels irrationally pleased that their argument is behind them.

“And, well. It’s not as though court life was without – uh – complications either,” Jaskier concludes, and Geralt has a very vivid memory of himself hauling Jaskier over his shoulder as they both flee a cuckolded husband brandishing a heavy mace.

“I am glad to have you with me,” Geralt says softly. Jaskier’s smile widens, his eyes glittering again in the candlelight. “But,” he adds, “I fear for your safety if you accompany me. I won’t always be able to protect you.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says slowly. “I’m _fifty years old_. I’ve lived longer than many, and could die at any moment. Struck down by plague, or a stray twig falling from a tree. You think I wish to die an old man, regretting every minute of my short life I did not spend at your side?”

Geralt freezes. He catalogues his friend’s face, registering the lines of age around his eyes, the way his flesh fills out slightly more than it used to around his face, a fact mostly hidden by the bard’s beard and moustache. And yet – and yet Jaskier still looks _remarkably_ young, his light eyes still filled with the energy and vibrance of the man Geralt met at eighteen – even if there are traces of weariness about those eyes, as well.

“You really did ignore that part, didn’t you,” Jaskier says, noticing Geralt’s shock. “I’m not immortal, Geralt. Let me choose how I live, before I die.”

Everything in Geralt rebels against the notion of Jaskier dying, and yet he cannot help but admit defeat in the face of his friend’s logic. “Why did you never marry, Jaskier?” Geralt asks slowly. “You could have had a family, by now.”

Jaskier huffs with amusement, shaking his head. “Gods, Geralt. I’ve already answered your question, haven’t I?” When Geralt doesn’t respond, he sighs. “You know me, Geralt. Never found a woman I could love for longer than a song.”

“Not the Countess de Stael?”

“No. Drop it, alright?” Jaskier shakes his head with a rueful grin.

“Not Anna Henrietta?” Geralt prods. “Not with all her vast estates and ample–”

“Stop!” Jaskier cries in mock exasperation, grinning. Geralt is glad that the bard’s tears have dried, even if the redness around his eyes remain. The bard swirls the last dregs of his wine around in his goblet and swallows it with a dramatic flourish, slamming the cup down on the table as he exhales in satisfaction.

“Alright. I’ll pack my things, and then go and see Pratima – I’m sure she’s sleeping, but I think she would rather have time to say farewells than a good night of rest.” Geralt watches his friend bounce off the bed and stretch, watches as the shining buttons on his vest catch and sparkle in the candlelight. He moves around the room like a flighty sparrow, hopping from one cabinet to another as he rolls shirts into each other and flattens them into a mildewed travelling pack.

Geralt had obtained new bags for them weeks ago by trading with the refugees. Most of his possessions, along with many of Jaskier’s, had been lost when they fled Skellige. Nevertheless, he had kept the few he had tightly arranged next to his bag. It was an old habit that had been drilled into him by years of surprise ambushes. Jaskier, on the other hand, let his possessions accumulate rapidly since arriving in the castle, and had let them sprawl across the room as carelessly as only someone born as nobility would. As Jaskier’s pack grows fatter and fatter, Geralt realises how many pretty clothes the bard has managed to obtain out of nowhere. He imagines his friend sniffing around the castle like a bloodhound, scenting for silk and expensive dyes in old wardrobes. He wonders if the clothes were stolen from old chests, or bought outright from the eccentrically dressed sorcerers.

“Should I come with you?” Geralt asks at last, as Jaskier is about to leave. He is unsure of his place here – as fond as he is of Pratima, he thinks Jaskier shares a far deeper bond with the doppler than he.

Jaskier turns to look back at him with surprise. “I assumed you were.”

Geralt smiles despite himself, and follows Jaskier out of the room and towards the central staircase.

It is strange, looking around at Ban Ard Academy now that he knows he is leaving it. The eccentric architecture and bizarre decorative choices have become ordinary to him in a matter of weeks, although he feels no particular sentimentality for the place. His skin is itching to be free of the walls, itching to be back on the ground with a sword in his hand. It is not so much a dislike for his accommodation – he can admit that there is an appeal in the lethargic lifestyle and the steady rhythm of decent, regular baths – but a gnawing, vague anxiety that he is wasting precious time.

“You seemed comfortable here,” Geralt remarks as they walk, remembering countless evenings where Jaskier and Pratima had curled up contentedly in the library’s armchairs. “Relatively speaking, with the world the way it is. I am not going to try to convince you to stay again, but you can see why I thought you might not want to leave.”

“Yes – I think I _shall_ miss that library,” Jaskier declares as they reach the landing. He surveys the surrounding area and slaps the staircase railings with buoyant cheer, his high spirits contradicting his own words. “Thank goodness it’s so well-protected, by magic and geography both. With Oxenfurt’s collection burned to a crisp, it might well be one of the largest left standing on the Continent.”

Geralt blinks. There isn’t any weighted grief or hesitation in Jaskier’s voice – indeed, he is positively glowing with cheerfulness.

“Mhmm,” Geralt murmurs, as they reach the second floor and head for the doppler’s room. Triss had found Pratima an out-of-the-way food storeroom hidden away between classrooms. It was a good find, as the room connected to the ground floor kitchens by a private set of stairs; in this way, Pratima could travel from the ground floor to their room alone without any passing mages questioning why they were there.

When they enter Pratima’s new lodgings, however, the room does not so much resemble a storeroom as a professor’s study. A sea of books and miscellaneous scrolls are sprawled haphazardly all over the small room. Several candles are lit around the place, holders perched precariously on top of poorly-balanced book stacks that look as though they might topple over at any moment. Geralt watches the candle-flame nearest to Pratima dance dangerously near precariously stacked papers.

“I’m trying to earn my keep!” Pratima says defensively, upon seeing them in the doorway. “I mean, I know you told me not to take books out of the library in case the sorceresses needed them, but honestly – these are just some old history books, not spells or alchemy or anything!”

The doppler is entirely earnest, with a determined scowl on their face. Geralt feels a surge of affection for the young doppler, and is very glad he came.

“Pratima,” Jaskier says, astonished. “You shouldn’t be staying up this late! And how did you manage to get all these books here undiscovered? What if one of these candles falls!”

“You worry too much!” Pratima says emphatically. “I’m careful, I promise! And I have a bowl of water over there, just in case!”

They point towards a dingy corner where Geralt indeed sees a carved bowl filled with dark liquid.

“Pratima…” Jaskier says, exasperated. He runs a weary hand over his eyes. “You have to be more careful. Especially now that – well.”

The bard pauses, unsure how to proceed. Pratima, however, seems to realise where the conversation is going.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” The doppler says, peering up at Jaskier. “I thought you would, eventually. I don’t suppose you would let me come with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, squatting down and hugging the doppler fiercely. “It’s far too dangerous out there. You know that.”

“I’d say you’re being hypocritical,” Pratima says, winding their small arms around Jaskier in return. “But I suppose there’s no stopping Geralt of Rivia from his witchering, any more than there is trying to stop you from following him.”

Jaskier separates from Pratima and shakes his head ruefully. “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but believe me, if there was a reason for me to stay…”

“I get it,” Pratima says, holding one of Jaskier’s hands firmly between their palms and staring at him with furious affection. “But you need to go. I get it, I promise. You two are heroes, you know? I’ll be alright.”

Jaskier sniffs, and takes something out from his vest pocket. “When this is over – I promise I will do my best to secure a future for you. If – if I cannot return, for whatever reason, make your way to Novigrad. Find a woman called Callonetta, she’s well known across the city – and tell her you can make a living as a mummer, or any such thing. Don’t be shy; you can trust her with your identity. Callonetta knows another doppler, through me. Maybe you could meet him too. And if… if you can’t find her, find whoever is in charge of the Foxen troupe of players. They will take you in, I am sure of it.”

He hands Pratima the piece of rolled up fabric. As it is unfurled, Geralt sees that it is the bard's very favourite piece of clothing.

“Thank you,” Pratima says, staring down at the bright magenta cap and brushing their fingers over the puffy egret's feather.

Interesting, Geralt thinks, that this Callonetta person is someone Jaskier trusts dearly, and yet someone Geralt knows nothing about. Of course they have led separate lives over many years, and yet in this moment Geralt is irrationally agitated by the lack of knowledge. If Jaskier had died somewhere on this journey, he would never have known to tell this person of his passing.

“I’m only sorry I can’t do more,” Jaskier whispers sadly.

“If you need money, food, anything,” Geralt says, wrenching himself out of a sudden disturbing vision of his friend’s cold corpse, “ask Yennefer. I know she can be… intimidating, but she will take care of you.”

Jaskier snorts. “What Geralt means to say is, ‘despite her scary face, she has a soft spot, deep, deep, deep, deep, _deep_ down’.”

“And if things get bad,” Geralt adds, “ _Run._ Do not believe this place is safe merely because it sits atop a mountain. You have good instincts, intelligence, and know how hide. Trust in your ability to survive, and do whatever it takes in order to do so.”

Pratima turns to him, and takes his hand between their own palms, as they had done with Jaskier. “I will survive, Geralt of Rivia. I swear it.” They cross their hand over their chest and glare with earnest determination.

“Good,” Geralt nods. “Now get some sleep. First rule of survival; getting enough sleep every night, so you don’t trip over your own feet escaping from jilted lovers.”

“That – I – as though _you_ can talk about getting enough sleep!” Jaskier splutters, caught off guard. “I remember that time you didn’t sleep for a week!” He stands and glares at Geralt, and Pratima giggles. Geralt feels fondness and regret wash over him, the bittersweet potpourri that always accompanies a farewell to a friend. This time, though, it seems more potent than ever – he supposes that’s only natural, with the world posing such mortal danger to them all. His thoughts are interrupted, however, when Pratima draws him close and embraces him with arms that barely reach halfway around each of his own.

“Take care of him, or else I’ll never forgive you!” Pratima whispers fiercely into his ear, so quietly that the sentence is barely more than them mouthing the words into the air. Geralt wraps one arm around them in exchange, and as they draw back from him the witcher communicates his reply with his steady, sincere gaze.

 _I will,_ he promises her silently. _I’ll protect him with my life._

Pratima’s face breaks into a wide smile, and he knows that they have understood his reply.

“We’d better get some sleep too,” Jaskier says remorsefully, as Pratima hugs him one last time. He pats their head fondly. “Now, don’t go getting into any trouble, or I’ll have immortalise your misdeeds in a song. Trust me, it’s very hard for people to forget about The Time You Tried To Cheat Three Dwarves In A Gwent Match And Ended Up Tied To A Ship Mast when you have a catchy tune to go along with the story.”

“I don’t think I’d mind, truth be told,” Pratima says, grinning. “Fame is fame is fame, right? No matter how you get it.”

“Ah,” Jaskier replies, swooning dramatically as a maiden before a famous knight. “We’ll make a fine mummer of this one, I know it. You’ll fit right in with the Foxen.”

“You’ll have to come and see me in a play, then,” Pratima beams.

They give their last farewells, and then finally depart back for their room. Geralt feels the weight of the unspoken words on everyone’s lips weigh heavy on his heart, and coat the slippery silence between himself and Jaskier.

_If we make it out alive. If we ever meet again._

“I think I should like more wine,” Jaskier declares suddenly as they return to their chamber. “There’s still a bit left, and I would hate to have it go to waste. Besides, I’ve done my packing – it’s only you that has to clean up now.”

“Don’t drink so much I have to drag you out of bed tomorrow,” Geralt grunts. He starts to pack his own things, and shoves the food Jaskier had saved from the feast into a small bag, without any delicacy. It won’t last long, but it might make for a good lunch tomorrow. Indeed, it might be the best fare they can have for a while, depending on where the Council drops them. Of course, Geralt can hunt birds with a well-placed stone, if it comes to that. If the birds drop from the skies, he can hunt rats, and insects. He has a feeling that rats and roaches would survive the Blight, even if everything else were to perish.

 _If only I had my crossbow,_ he thinks – but his crossbow was with Roach, and that particular horse is lost to him for good.

Jaskier sits slumped on his bed, oddly quiet.

“We gotta save the world, Geralt,” he says finally, his words slurring slightly. “Think of all the Pratimas out there, dying. Already dead.”

“Mm,” Geralt grunts, just to acknowledge the bard’s thoughts. He continues packing his clothes. Jaskier’s posture sinks further and further as he swigs gulps of wine from the bottle.

“We gotta,” Jaskier says again, quieter, and more to the floor than to Geralt.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles softly. “You’re going to hate every second of tomorrow if you don’t get some rest.”

“I know,” Jaskier replies miserably, and he places the wine bottle atop a bedside table in an admittance of defeat. He strips off his vestments and slips under his padded quilt, turning to face the other wall. After a moment, Geralt hears Jaskier’s voice again.

“It’s just so _hard,_ saying goodbye to people all the time, knowing you probably won’t meet again. I don’t know how you immortal-adjacent people stand it.”

 _You don’t have to come,_ Geralt thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows what Jaskier’s answer would be. And, selfishly – he doesn’t want to say goodbye to Jaskier either.

* * *

The next morning, they both wake to a sharp rapping at their door.

“I hope you’re both ready,” Yennefer calls out from outside. When Geralt opens the door, he finds her looking far less presentable than he is used to. Her hair is a mess, and one half of her shirt has become untucked from her pants, a dangling white sail peeking out from under her black vest.

“Morning,” Jaskier says from behind him, yawning. “I have to ask – is it necessary to be up _quite_ this early? I would cut the strings on my lute for a few more hours of sleep. Well, if I still had it.”

Geralt glares at him with a _I-warned-you_ look, but Jaskier merely smiles back at him sleepily, unfazed.

“There are certain times of the day when magic is easier,” Geralt hears Yennefer explain, as he hefts his bag up over his shoulder. “Certain times of the year, too, like the solstice – even certain years in the calendar can possess stronger magical resonance. Some of those we understand the reason for, but others are a mystery. Oh, there are theories – the planetary movements, the alignment of the tides and winds, the whims of the gods’ favour. But dawn and dusk are traditionally favourable for portal travel, or anything else involving a traversal of boundaries.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Jaskier replies. “I don’t suppose you’d help me traverse the boundary of the staircase by carrying my bag for me?”

“Do I look like a pack mule to you, bard?” Yennefer says icily.

Jaskier grins. “Dear, lovely, enchanting sorceress. If you were a pack mule, you would be the handsomest of the bunch. If I were a trader and I saw your lovely black coat, I could not possibly be bargained below a price of–”

“If he had not agreed to go with you,” Yennefer says loudly, “I would have pushed him into the portal myself.”

The trip to the top of the eastern tower is not a particularly long one, but carrying a heavy pack up several flights of stairs – first on the grand staircase, and then up a narrower, spiralling set – proves quite tiring for Jaskier. Even Geralt can admit that his thighs are burning a little bit by the time they have reached the top floor.

And what a floor it is. As with most of the castle, the walls and floor are formed of solid stone bricks – but the ceilings are as high as they are in the entrance hall, and the stone it is made of has been carved into a multitude of statues with alarming realism. There are creatures of all types – humans, halflings, striga, golems, cats, kraken. All of them are entangled together, their colourless forms seamlessly moulded against one another in a chaotic, crowded tableau. When Geralt finally tears his eyes away, he notices the rest of the room. It is shaped very much like an Eternal Fire cathedral, with extensive patterned windows at the far end of the room that form a shining pattern of colour upon the floor. And the floor – where a cathedral would have pews, instead are marked dozens of magic circles, swirling pentagrams lined with symbols. In the centre of the room, between the columns, three women and a man are robed in dark velvet cloaks, murmuring to each other.

Philippa stands in front of the altar stone, silhouetted by the colourful glass window behind her. The early morning light is still coloured with the cool blue and purple hues of night-time, but Geralt knows soon the chamber will be tinted orange with morning sun.

“Say your farewells, Witcher,” Philippa decrees. “We don’t have all day.”

Yennefer shoots the other sorceress a scathing look, but turns to face her two companions.

“Thank you for protecting us, Yennefer,” Jaskier says unexpectedly. Hearing his friend refer to the sorceress sincerely – by her name, too, and not just ‘sorceress’ or ‘vixen’ – is perhaps even more jarring than hearing Jaskier express appreciation to her.

Yennefer merely nods. “Make sure you keep him on track,” she comments casually to Jaskier. “Nothing worse than travelling with this one when he’s in a foul mood,” she says, nodding at Geralt. Jaskier lets out a surprised snort, and she smiles benevolently at him.

 _Strange times indeed,_ Geralt thinks, as Jaskier smiles back at her.

She passes Geralt a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine. He unwraps it, and a small silver brooch falls onto his palm. It has been fashioned in the shape of a small violet, with amethysts inlaid in place of the anthers. 

“I found it,” Yennefer says as he stares at it. She glances meaningfully at Philippa for a moment, and then looks back at Geralt. “The parting gift I mentioned. To remember me by.”

“Thank you, Yen,” Geralt says, kissing her on the cheek. When he draws back, she looks slightly embarrassed, and avoids his gaze.

Jaskier beams at her. “My dear Yennefer,” he says, sweeping his hand to his chest in exaggerated horror. “Such sentimentality. You might have a heart after all.”

“Shut up, bard,” she says, but her attempts at cruelty are ruined by the corners of her mouth turning up as she speaks. “I’ll be in contact,” she says, finally looking at Geralt again, “and make sure you don’t get yourself in any real trouble. I mean it – we only get one chance with the finding spell. Be ready on Midinváerne.”

“I will,” Geralt nods, and he and Jaskier turn away. They walk to the middle of the gathered mages. Geralt is disgruntled to find their hoods conceal their faces from him, and he cannot make out their identities. It is a pointless bit of costume and subterfuge – what does Philippa hope to gain by hiding these mages’ faces? But then, the Lodge always had a flair for the dramatic. It seemed that trait had not been lost during its transition into a new entity.

“Are you ready, Witcher?” Philippa calls. “We don’t have much more time before the window of power wanes.”

“Yes,” Geralt says shortly. He has a sudden, vivid memory of the last portal journey he took outside of Ban Ard. “You won’t transport us into the middle of a bandit camp or bear’s den, I trust?”

“I’d never put one of my allies in danger,” Philippa says, smiling coolly. She splays out her hands beseechingly. In front of the stained-glass window, she looks more like an avenging angel carved in stone, or rendered in an illustrated manuscript, than a being of flesh. “We are all friends here, yes? What good would it do me to bring you to harm?”

Geralt thinks of Triss, freezing somewhere in the far north.

“Sure,” he says roughly. “All friends. Go ahead, then.”

The mages around them take up positions around the central circle, heads bowed low to the ground. They all make a unified gesture, in perfect synchronicity, and at once a gaping hole in space is torn before Geralt and Jaskier. Swirling blue and red lights twist into inky blackness.

“After you,” Jaskier says nervously. Geralt steps towards the portal.

“Wait,” he hears Yennefer call after them, and he half turns back to her. She is standing at the other end of the nave, eyes wide and fists balled up at her sides.

“Don’t forget,” she calls. “Our fates are bound. All of us.”

Geralt nods once more.

 _We’ll find her,_ he thinks, loudly enough so she can hear it. Then he steps forward into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In _The Witcher 2_ , Philippa has a lover called Cynthia, who is revealed to be a spy. It’s implied she leans more towards women than men in the corresponding game-canon journal entry, despite being the lover of Sigismund Dijkstra in the books:
> 
> _“Philippa Eilhart's preferences in partners were widely known, yet they were audibly commented upon only in a specific circles, and only when the sorceress could not hear.”_
> 
> So ends the first half of this fic! Thank you to everyone who has been reading and following this, I adore you and your comments mean the world!


	16. Lammas - Part One

The days begin to shorten again as they wander south. Philippa had kept to her word and deposited them both in the elven city of Loc Muinne, the lakeside ruins nestled in the mountains between Ban Ard and Dol Blathanna. It seems that, miraculously, the storms have either abated here or avoided the area all together. Geralt is grateful for the small mercy – it is difficult enough travelling on foot, and travelling miles at a time in stormy weather would be unthinkably dangerous.

“It’s good that we had all that rain, though, isn’t it?” Jaskier notes one day, as they make a crossing over a gushing creek. “The fields were parched for months. Farmers might be able to grow their crops again.”

“No,” Geralt grunts. “Too much rain and wind strips the land. Washes away the seeds, rips out roots from even the strongest trees. There’s no growing through dried mud.”

“Naturally,” Jaskier mutters. “Can’t have a single good thing this year, can we?”

They follow the road beside the Pontar south-east. Dozens of elven towns litter the riverside, sacked at various points during the centuries. All have long since been abandoned. The Blue Mountains rise on either side of the river, enormous, towering ranges that dominate the landscape. The valley floor is green enough, the water from fresh creeks is plentiful, and there is decent game for Geralt to hunt once their cobbled-together supplies run dry. Despite that, however, Geralt feels as though he is travelling in a desert. The days are scorching hot with summer heat, and the nights are oddly chill. But what reminds him most of the desert wastes is the complete absence of people. The road is eerily empty, and the only sounds are made by the wind, water and wildlife.

On the third day, they start to encounter sparsely populated villages. At the first merchant stall, they eagerly purchase food and medicines for their journey. Most of the villagers stare at them as they pass – Geralt, with his intimidating black armour, twin swords and white hair, and Jaskier, with his colourful clothes and cheerful smile. Children, in particular, openly gape at the pair, and have to be pulled away by fretful parents. Geralt supposes they must not get too many travellers in these parts. It makes sense; all that lies to the west are elven settlements and miles of mountain wilderness.

On the fifth day, they at last reach Ban Gleán. The fortified city sits near the intersection of the Pontar and Lixela, and it seems as though those rivers have seen a rush of refugees in recent months. Hundreds of rowboats lie scattered upon the shores near the city gates. At the bottom of the city walls, a make-shift shanty town seems to have sprung up, surrounded by a barricade of sharpened pikes. Geralt sees glistening eyes peeking out from behind the wooden shafts.

“What’s over there?” he asks a guard at the gate, pointing to the encampment. The guard scoffs.

“Catriona,” the guard snarls. “And if you see any bitch or bastard crossing that barrier, let me know. I’ll sweep their head off faster than you can blink.”

He twirls his mace menacingly, and Jaskier takes a tentative step backwards from both the guard and the shanty town.

Ban Gleán seems to have absorbed people from the surrounding areas like a sponge soaking up blood. Inside the walls, countless people jostle each other for space along every thoroughfare, and those desperate for coin beg from makeshift shop stalls and street gutters alike. A single outbreak of plague would devastate hundreds, if not thousands of people in conditions like this. Geralt supposes there isn’t much the city can do to stop it without evicting large groups of people from the walls – an act which would almost certainly cause riots. It is remarkable a major outbreak has thus far been avoided.

The witcher is already cursing himself for allowing Jaskier to come along. Monsters and bandits, at least, he can fight back against with his swords. Catriona, on the other hand, Geralt is helpless against.

He adjusts the way he carries himself so as to be more intimidating, and starts snarling at anyone that gets too close to them. His hackles rise further when he notices shady individuals that start to follow them around the city. As the day winds on, he identifies three separate figures, then seven, then nine. A chill of foreboding runs up his spine.

“Change of plan,” Geralt says shortly to Jaskier, as they are buying waterskins at a street stall. “We’re not staying here tonight.”

“Bwah?” Jaskier exclaims. “But, Geralt! It might be the only proper bed we see for _days_!”

“You’ll live,” Geralt says gruffly, watching the cloaked figures in his periphery vision. “It’s not safe here.”

The bard mutters colourful insults under his breath, but otherwise acquiesces. Geralt purchases unnecessarily luxurious bedrolls for them both as a silent apology. Jaskier seems to accept this distraction with delight, and takes great pleasure and ceremony in the disposal of the mouldy gear they had scavenged from Ban Ard. They also buy new horses and saddlebags on their way out of the city.

“I’ll name you Arion,” he says to his black gelding, patting it fondly on the head. “May you spirit me away from danger as quickly as possible.”

Geralt eyes his grey mare reproachfully. The horse whinnies and stares back at him with disdain. It had been the only mare available, and Geralt is unsatisfied with his purchase.

 _You’re not a Roach,_ he thinks vindictively. But she is docile enough, if markedly dumber than his usual choice of steed, and so with a sigh of resignation he mounts her and follows Jaskier out of Ban Gleán’s gates.

* * *

They make camp that night atop a small mesa, surrounded by a thicket of pines. Ordinarily Geralt would not camp in such an exposed space, but the elevation offers them a good deal of protection; besides which, the landscape is as abandoned here as it had been near Loc Muinne. It is this false sense of security, perhaps, combined with the comfort of their new bedrolls, that sends Geralt into a far deeper sleep than he intends.

Hours later, Geralt wakes to the noise of one of their new horses whinnying in alarm. He tilts his head up minutely, and notices shadows moving around in the darkness.

 _Dammit,_ Geralt thinks. _They followed us out of the city._

He covers Jaskier’s mouth forcefully with his left hand, his right closing around his steel sword. His eyes stay fixed on the figures circling them as he feels Jaskier wake up, struggle momentarily against his hand, and then go slack.

 _Positioning’s bad for a surprise attack,_ Geralt thinks, calculating his odds. _They’d see me standing up. But I have better vision than them in this darkness, and it is unlikely they could match me in skill._

“Alright,” he says loudly, standing to his feet. “Show yourself, you bastards.”

The shadows freeze in shock. A single moment passes that might almost be comedic as the group realises they’ve been discovered – and then they come at him at once, shouting with anger. Jaskier gasps out in alarm, and rolls out of the way towards the shelter of a nearby rock. Geralt, meanwhile, parries his attackers with ease, the sound of clanging blades and their assailants’ shouting echoing in the quiet night. He was right in his assumption; his attackers are slower and clumsier than he is, and it is no challenge at all to cut them down one by one. He can tell by the stench of their blood and sweat that they are human, and have not bathed in some time.

“Leave,” he barks at the remaining few left alive, “or you will follow your brothers to your death.”

They scatter immediately, fleeing back into the darkness. He hears the distinctive crunch of foliage as the deserters fight their way out of the surrounding thicket.

Geralt kicks at the body of one of the fallen. The man whines in pain, and Geralt crouches over him, picking the man up off the ground by the front of his shirt.

“Who sent you?” he hisses. “Why did you attack us?”

“N-nobody sent us,” the man whimpers. “J-just trying to eat. Knew the richly-dressed fool would have money, witcher guard or no. Thought if there was enough of us…”

He trails off with a spluttering cough, and Geralt feels drops of blood coating the hand gripping the man’s shirt. He lets go, and growls in disgust.

“We’re going,” he says to Jaskier curtly, picking his things up from their campsite and shoving them back into his horse’s saddle.

“But…”

“Now!” Geralt barks.

Jaskier casts a miserable look at the bodies lying in the damp grass, and then gingerly side-steps them in order to pack up his belongings. Geralt notices that the colourful bedroll he had purchased for Jaskier is freshly spattered with blood.

After that encounter, Geralt keeps takes extra precautions to make sure they are not followed, doubling back in places and crossing as many waterways as he can find. The mountain paths, however, prove to be equally treacherous – only now it is monsters pursuing them, and not people. Harpies and erynias swoop at them from lofty nests, screeching with murderous rage. Goats and wild sheep bleat with alarm, fleeing from their winged predators and running amok along the mountain trails. Their horses, far less capable than their previous steeds, get spooked at least twice an hour. Geralt stops himself from using Axii on them, determined to conserve his magic – even when his mare encounters a particularly aggressive ram, rears up, and nearly topples him to the ground.

“All in all,” Jaskier says irritably, on their second day traversing the mountain path, “they make it terribly difficult to enjoy the serene views.” He takes a moment to emphatically look back behind them, and Geralt has to admit that his friend has a point. The scenery is beautiful; to the east, the plains and hills of Kaedwen spread out for as far as the eye can see. To the west, the valley forged by the Pontar, and the sweeping Blue Mountains ranges. They are lucky, Geralt knows, that they are making this journey now, and not in the winter when snow and ice render the trail impassable. But there is evidence of the Blight, even here; the grasses of the Kaedweni plains are withered to jaundiced yellow, and the canopies of trees scattered across the landscape seem blackened and browned, as though ravaged by fire and drought. 

On the third day, at the top of the mountain ridge, they are attacked by two griffins. One goes down quickly; the other nearly takes out Geralt’s arm with a close swipe of its claws. He escapes with only a cut, but Jaskier worries at it when the wound does not stop bleeding.

Geralt has no healing potions on hand, and so he gives up on it and ties it off with one of Jaskier’s spare shirts. Neither of them has ever been particularly adept at healing arts, other than Geralt’s knowledge of witcher remedies. Jaskier, though, starts querying him on the ingredients needed for healing tonics, and the method by which to make them. Geralt thinks it is only academic curiosity that makes him ask, and so is consequently surprised when his friend spends the descent desperately searching for celadine, despite being told repeatedly that it only grows in fields and swamp land.

“We’ll make straight for the hamlets,” Jaskier promises, when his search proves unfruitful. The bard has started rambling almost to himself. “It’s nearly Lammas, anyway, so we should hole in somewhere with a large festival – the kind that would attract a goddess wishing to bestow favours. They should have plenty of medicine there, too, and a proper bed for you to sleep in.”

A flying fleder, the size of a small dog, squawks from the trees. Then two more burst forth from the foliage and glide towards them, fangs out. Jaskier quickly reins in his horse, dismounts, and lets out an ear-crushing screech that sends the fleders careering backwards in shock. They flutter back into the bushes, suitably cowed.

“Heard they see with their ears,” Jaskier explains to his flabbergasted companion. Geralt takes one look at his friend’s unapologetic smile, blinks, and then laughs for a minute straight.

“Alright,” Geralt says, after he subsides into occasional sniggers, “put that in one of your songs, and I shall sing at the taverns in your stead. The look you plastered on its face!” Geralt shakes his head. “I have to remember that trick.”

Jaskier’s pleased grin remains fixed in place for the rest of the day.

As they descend the mountain, the monsters they face grow smaller in size, but more numerous. Tiny humanoid creatures stare at them from behind tree trunks and shrubs. Griggs, Geralt explains to Jaskier. Mamunes and misguids chatter noisily from the trees, and Geralt is reminded of the Grand Council’s dining hall. A few creatures take the initiative to assault them during the night, but Geralt decapitates them with little difficulty. After the first few massacres, the rest learn to stay away.

Finally, on the fifth day, they spot the peculiar leaning towers of Upper Posada. The village had been built upon rocks that jutted out of the valley floor, orphaned boulders carried by the river Dyfne long ago. In the rainy seasons, the valley often flooded, and the people retreated into their homes above ground. Wooden rope bridges linked each rock to the other, so that the people might move about even during the floods. Geralt remembered it as a simple place occupied by simple folk.

As Philippa had intimated, it seemed that the Valley of Posada had weathered the Blight fairly well; the grass on this side of the mountains is still green, if a little patchier than Geralt remembers it.

“We first met at the tavern here,” Jaskier remarks casually to Geralt as they climb one of the long bridges that lead to that very same inn. “Do you remember?”

“Mm.”

Jaskier takes his noncommittal grunt for enthusiastic assent. “Punched me right in the stomach, over there,” the bard says cheerily, pointing to a distant ridge. “Ah, fond memories indeed.”

They leave their horses in the care of a local farmer, and then make their way up a short staircase into the village’s tavern. Geralt is forcibly reminded of how long it has been since they have been in Posada when he sees how much has changed. Back then, it had been filled with strangers who were mistrustful of each other and as frugal with their words as they were with their coin. In those days, of course, there had been frequent skirmishes in the valley. The elves had been exiled from Dol Blathanna, cast out by their human foes, and had fought that injustice wherever they could. But after Francesca Findabair’s ascension to the throne of Silver Towers, elves had been welcomed back into their lands. The area had been marked out as its own duchy, separate to Aedirn, and the humans residing there had to either learn to co-exist with their numerous new pointy-eared neighbours, or emigrate to yellower pastures.

Of course, the new peace was aided by the fact that no Scoia'tael guerrilla fighters were allowed citizenship after the Peace of Cintra. The humans here could, therefore, rest easy in the knowledge that none of the new residents of Posada had ever raised a bow against them.

The influx of hamlet denizens has certainly rejuvenated the tavern, which is alive with elven and human patrons alike. Forest totems are strewn upon the windowsills, and twisting flower vines cover the walls and ceilings, plain stone and rotting timber now concealed by fresh growth. Red straw lanterns are hung between the creepers, swaying slightly in the warm breeze. Actual tablecloths cover the wooden tables, anointed with vases of fresh summer flowers.

“A bit different to how we left it,” Geralt remarks, watching a young man giggle as he is kissed on the cheek by a much older woman.

“ _In a crowded room, eyes catch eyes crosswise_ ,” Jaskier sings under his breath, a line from a song Geralt does not know. “You know, if it hadn’t been for you, I might still be picking up scraps of food from a tavern floor.”

“I doubt that,” Geralt scoffs.

“Are you implying I am _naturally_ talented, Geralt?” Jaskier grins. “Good grief, don’t let me stop you showering compliments upon me. As rare as a shooting star – or,” he amends, doubtless remembering the meteor shows earlier in the year, “as rare as free lodgings. Speaking of which…”

He waltzes over to the old tavernkeeper, who stares at him with a single, beady eye. Jaskier grins, and starts negotiating something with her, stoking his goatee with exaggerated movements and shaking his head when he doesn’t get what he wants.

When the bard is done, he pushes his way past the other patrons without any heed for the disgruntled glances he is given. “They’re overfull here,” he explains to Geralt, “but she told us there will likely be a spare bed in the next rock over, if we have the coin – not very good if we have to make a quick escape as we did outside Ban Gleán, but these people seem more tolerant.” He gestures at the crowds of humans and elves, intermingling without apparent hostilities. “Gertrid over here says the woman who owns that house is good with medicine, too.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, nodding. “Alright.”

They leave the tavern, and look out over the valley to a rocky pillar stacked with houses that creep even higher into the sky. They make their way towards it across a long, high bridge that links the two boulders together. It sways slightly in the breeze, and Jaskier gulps and clutches at the rope railing.

“Really don’t like heights that much,” he whines, looking down at the rocky valley floor that lies beneath.

“Keep looking forward,” Geralt says gruffly, swaying dangerously behind Jaskier. He feels fainter than usual, and realises his wound has taken a turn for the worse. Heeding his own advice, he concentrates on the largest building ahead of them – a mustard-coloured villa at the highest point of the rockface.

They finally finish the crossing, and Geralt leans on Jaskier as soon as they step onto solid ground. He is panting heavily.

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier says quietly. “It’s only a little further. Come on, Geralt, you’ve survived worse than a little papercut from an angry bird.”

Geralt huffs a pained laugh, and they hobble to the entrance of the mustard-coloured house together. The journey requires a slow traversal up a long flight of creaking stairs. As he knocks on the front door, Jaskier starts cursing at the architects of Upper Posada for the lack of foresight in their design.

“Idiotic decision, to have wooden steps up so high that could rot and leave someone – hello!” Jaskier exclaims, as the door to the manor opens. “We were told we might be able to pay for accommodation here, and perhaps get some help for my friend…”

“A witcher,” the old woman inside says, squinting, and then cackles. “I remember you. Geralt of Rivia.”

“Have we met?” Geralt asks, confused and rather queasy.

“No,” the woman says, ushering them into a wide atrium. “Come in, you look white as a wraith. I was in the tavern, when you were visiting here years and years ago. There was an awful bard there too, and he pointed you out to all of us. Doubt we would have tossed you a second glance, otherwise, but we knew well who the Butcher of Blaviken was.”

Jaskier squawks indignantly. “I’ll have you know my repertoire has _much_ improved since then,” he says defiantly, and the woman, who has up until now stared solely at Geralt, takes a second look at his companion and opens her mouth in shock.

“Well I’ll be. You’re him, ain’t you? The bard from that day. Thought the witcher would kill you, when I saw you go after him.”

“Beneath this impressive goatee and – uh, overgrown stubble–” Jaskier says, patting the side of his face self-consciously, “I’ll have you know I am every bit the handsome man you remember.”

The woman raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s as you say. Remarkable how little you have changed… Part-elf, are you? Well, no matter to me. We’re not prejudiced, here. If you’re in need of bed, we do have a spare room. I’ll be charging you though – and don’t think to cheat me, or I’ll have you both thrown from the rock, witcher or no.”

She cackles again.

Jaskier coughs slightly. “No cheating, on my honour. Or his, which might be more reputable. But, as fond as I am of such pleasantries, my friend really does need to lie down…”

The woman fixes them with another squinty glare. “Oh, indeed he does. Go on, then. I’ll send Arianna to tend to your wound. Just the room up the stairs, to your left.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier starts helping him up the stairs. “She’s not right, is she?” he asks after a moment, as they reach the top and he pauses to take a break. He’s never thought to ask.

“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, puzzled by the non-sequitur. “Oh, about being part-elf? I shouldn’t think so. I don’t believe a family like mine would allow interbreeding with the likes of non-humans,” he adds, laughing bitterly.

 _But it is strange,_ Geralt thinks, _how young he looks. Like a man of thirty lived years, rather than one with a full score more._ The question vanishes from his mind, however – as do all of his more pressing thoughts – once he sees the wide bed they’ve been provided. He collapses face-first into the mattress with a groan of pleasure, his boots still touching the floor.

“Oh, Geralt,” he hears Jaskier say, with a mixture of concern and amusement. “Come on, you’ll be in a terrible mood tomorrow if you fall asleep like that.”

He feels his friend undo his boots slowly, and he lifts his feet obligingly as Jaskier tugs off his shoes one by one.

“I’ll wager you’d like a bath right about now,” Jaskier murmurs as he works on Geralt’s sword-belt, hovering above him on the bed. “So I’ll ask this Arianna – hey!” He snaps his fingers above Geralt’s left ear, and the witcher rolls over onto his side reluctantly. “Stop it. I need you to sit up while I get off all this armour.”

Geralt growls a noise of dissatisfaction deep in his chest, but yields to the request. He lets Jaskier make quick work of his armour clasps, familiar with them from years of helping Geralt undress.

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, as his chest is finally freed from all the chainmail and leather, “Thank you. For everything.” He crawls into the bed sheets, and lies in a position where his arm will not bleed out onto the mattress.

“I swear to Melitele, Geralt, if you die on me now,” Jaskier says. His voice catches. “I’ll… I’ll never forgive you.”

“Just a cut,” Geralt replies, opening his eyes to squint at his friend’s face. The bard is glaring at him, but his eyes are full of tangible concern. “You’ve seen me get injured before. Just need some rest.”

“I – you – plenty of infected wounds have led to death before! But never mind, I should have known the great Geralt of Rivia could handle it,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands in the air. “You don’t need to overcompensate with bravado, Geralt. If you dare to be less than stoic for a moment, I promise I won’t call you ‘the littlest Witcher’ in my songs and make fun of your tiny, unmanly cock.”

“Not littlest,” Geralt grunts. “That’s Lambert.”

“Oh of course,” he hears Jaskier say, chuckling. “How did that charming Kaer Morhen limerick go?”

Geralt smirks, remembering. He recounts the song in a tuneless growl.

_“Lambert, Lambert, what a prick,  
The witcher with the smallest dick,  
He failed to perform  
When the ladies all swarmed  
And instead went outside and was sick.”_

“I cannot believe you mock _me_ for the quality of my work,” Jaskier laughs raucously. “Was it just professional jealousy, all this time?”

“Erm,” a new voice says in a heavy Toussaint accent, and Jaskier’s laughter immediately stumbles to a halt. “You have a wound that needs treatment?”

Geralt peers at the girl who he assumes is Arianna. She has a warm complexion and wiry brown hair that is bunched up on either side of her head. Her eyes are wide, and her bottom lip quivers with barely suppressed anxiety. She is very pretty, Geralt thinks. A well-balanced face, and substantial curves barely hidden below her white shirt and olive tunic.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, all suave charm. Geralt frowns, although his friend cannot see him do so. “Geralt over here had a bit of an encounter with a griffin.”

“ _Gods_ ,” the girl exclaims. “You faced a griffin and lived?”

“Two of them, in fact,” Jaskier beams, buoyed by his enthusiastic audience. “And killed them both.”

The girl claps both hands to her mouth, as she gasps in shock. “That is the work of a hero,” she says. “I would be honoured to see to the cut – if you will allow me?”

Geralt scowls, but he turns over in the bed and allows her to undress his injury. Jaskier wrinkles his nose as his purple silk shirt comes away stained dark with blood.

“This is no good,” she says, shaking her head at the cut. It oozes white pus, and smells of rotted flesh. “It will have to be treated immediately. You are lucky the infection has not spread.” She dabs at the wound with a cloth, and opens a jar of some sort of salve.

“’M good at healing,” Geralt says, annoyed by her attentions. “Just need a nap.”

“Finally! Character development!” Jaskier says, sighing. “Once,” he says to Arianna in a stage whisper, “he got so grumpy from lack of sleep he released a djinn just to solve his problems, and, well. The resulting tale is quite a story…”

As it happens, not even his stinging wound will keep Geralt from unconsciousness now that he has a soft pillow beneath him. He drifts off to the noise of Jaskier making animated choking sounds, as the bard recounts to Arianna the tale of their adventure in Rinde.

* * *

Geralt startles into alertness when he hears the sound of something crashing to the ground. He sits up, snarling, to find Arianna looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Sir, forgive me, I am so sorry–” she says, tripping over her words in her haste to apologise. “So sorry – please forgive – I did not mean to wake you.”

Geralt sweeps his eyes across the room, checking for anything out of place.

“Don’t touch my things,” the witcher snaps.

“Of course,” Arianna says immediately. “It’s only, your friend said it was alright for me to take your clothes to be washed. They are full of blood and grime, and I find that an overnight soak before the scrubbing helps to remove such stubborn stains.”

Geralt glares at her, but she is surprisingly self-assured in her chore-based righteousness. “Fine,” he growls. He rolls over in his bed and strips off his undershirt and pants, discomforted as he learns his clothes, as well as the bed sheets, are soaked through with sweat. He tosses the offending garments at her feet. She picks them up without any complaint, and then sets about collecting their other clothes from around the room.

He looks out the window as she works, and sees the sun lying low in the sky. It is a pretty sight indeed; the colours of sunset are caught and refracted by the clouds scattered in interlacing patterns. His wound feels a little better, but his head still swims with sickness.

“You have a bad fever, I think,” Arianna says, laying the steel sword on a table and attending to him with a wet cloth. “It is hard to tell in this summer heat – but see how you have sweat beading on your scalp? It is your body fighting the infected blood.”

Geralt bites his tongue from a scathing retort. The girl is somewhere between sixteen and twenty – she doesn’t need to be any more afraid of him than she already is. “Where is Jaskier?” he asks instead.

“He said he was going to go down to the village, to ‘explore a bit’,” the girl replies. “There is no need for alarm. He said he would be back tonight.”

“He told you to check on me every so often,” Geralt guesses. “In case the infection got worse.”

The girl blushes. “I hope that is alright with you. I can leave now, if you wish it.”

Geralt sighs. He does not like sleeping around other people at all – Jaskier and Yennefer being the exceptions to the rule. Even when he does fall asleep next to lovers other than Yennefer, he often feels ill-rested in the mornings, as though his mind wouldn’t let him sleep properly. Usually, he feigns sleep and chooses instead to meditate.

“It’s… alright,” Geralt says slowly. “But you can leave if you wish. I’m sure there are more interesting tasks to attend to.”

The girl blushes again, the colour settling uncomfortably on her golden skin. “Oh,” she says softly. “Well, no, sir. You’re really the most interesting thing that’s walked into this house in a while.”

She stares at him, and Geralt sighs and rubs at a sweaty spot of skin between his eyes. Once, he might have bedded such a woman, so obviously intrigued by his strangeness. Now, he just feels tired. _She is so young,_ he thinks.

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt says, dismissing her. “Witchers heal fast. If you want to help, you can find me celadine and berbercane fruit. Need it to make a certain potion.”

“Oh, Master Jaskier already asked about that!” the girl laughs. Geralt immediately hates the way her mouth shapes the bard’s name. It reminds him of Anna Henrietta, and the disastrous sequence of events that led to the bard’s banishment from the duchy. “He said he would fetch some, as we have none in supply here. But plenty of both grow abundantly in the valley, so he should have no trouble.”

“Fine,” Geralt says, exasperated that his attempts to dismiss her have not succeeded. “Then find me your most potent dwarven spirit.”

“Like a ghost?” The girl says, uncertain.

“No,” Geralt replies, rolling his eyes. “Like a drink. Need that, too.”

“Oh, alright!” the girl exclaims, and races out the doorway. Geralt sighs, relieved he has sent her on a quest that she will, at the very least, need to visit the tavern for. He sinks back into the mattress, and unconsciousness washes back over him.

* * *

The next time Geralt wakes, it is to the sound of voices arguing.

“Oh, come now – ’tis but a scratch, truly–”

“You _men,_ always running around recklessly – it is clear to me from your friend that you have no idea how to treat a wound, either–”

“Well, in fairness, he usually is very good at healing–”

“Oh, and I suppose you believe you have no _need_ for good medical practice, then!”

Geralt looks up blearily, squinting in the dark. The room is lit by a few candles – he has slept well past dinnertime, apparently, and Arianna and Jaskier are standing at the doorway, hissing at each other like street cats.

“I’m awake,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier turns to him, wincing as he does.

“Geralt!” he exclaims in surprise. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to wake you – you seemed as though you would sleep through an invasion of ice trolls!”

Geralt notices the way his friend is holding himself, and frowns. “Are you hurt?”

“Yes, he has gotten himself a wound to match your own,” Arianna replies, in a biting tone. “I suppose he thinks I will tend to _his_ wounds now, as well!”

 _Hmm,_ Geralt thinks, noting her sudden lack of deference. _She likes him._

“Oh – really, that isn’t fair,” Jaskier says pleadingly. “I was just trying to get some coin to repay you for your hospitality, too!”

“Singing rarely gets you injured, Jaskier,” Geralt notes. “Unless you decided to seduce a barmaid with a sword-wielding brother. It would not be the first time.”

He sees Arianna look a little taken aback at that. _Good,_ he thinks, unfairly.

“Well, Geralt, if you’re going to be like that,” Jaskier says, with a theatrical sigh, “I suppose I shouldn’t share my witcher earnings with you.” He drops a full purse of coin on the bedside table, and Geralt looks at it, then back at Jaskier, whose face radiates pride.

“Witcher earnings?” Geralt asks, putting two and two together. “Jaskier, are you _insane?_ ”

“It really wasn’t a difficult–”

“You could have been _killed,_ ” Geralt snarls. “What were you _thinking_?”

Jaskier looks at him, his face unusually angry. “I was _thinking_ I would ask around the valley to get any useful information,” he says, gesturing violently with his hands, “and I was _thinking_ I could collect some supplies to treat your wound, and I was _thinking,_ ” he adds with mounting fury, pointing to their luxurious accommodation, “of paying for _all this_ with my usual method of singing until I was hoarse, but there’s only tavern in the village, and I have no lute, and to be quite honest I have bad memories of food being thrown at me last time I was here, _and_ ,” he says, holding up a finger before Geralt can interrupt, “on the way to the tavern I saw a noticeboard, and there was a well-paid job to get rid of a sylvan.”

“So you decided to take it on yourself,” Geralt concludes, furious.

“He didn’t hurt me!” Jaskier exclaims defensively. “I just – er, collided with a rather sharp bit of glass, actually.”

Arianna and Geralt both glare at him. “You told me you were skewered by his horns,” she says accusingly, pointing at him.

“Oh, well,” Jaskier says nervously, backing into the window behind him, “this is really very unfortunate, because it appears I have exaggerated the truth to one of you, and I’d really rather not reveal which one…”

This does not seem to appease Arianna, who wrinkles her mouth in disgust. “ _Men,_ ” she snaps, turning and storming out the door and slamming it behind her. They hear a series of curses in her native tongue from behind the door, fading as she walks down the outside stairs.

Geralt and Jaskier look at each other significantly, and Jaskier bursts into laughter. Geralt chuckles, and shakes his head.

“Toussaint women are certainly fiery when crossed, aren’t they?” Jaskier says, almost admiringly. “With the name and the accent, too, she reminds me very much of dear Anarietta.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Geralt admits. He pats the bed beside him, gesturing for his friend to sit down. “Now, tell me of this sylvan. Did its face frighten you into a fall?”

Jaskier sits on the other side of the bed, observing Geralt with a worried furrow in his brow. “You knew I was lying to her?”

“You don’t lie to me very often. I can smell it on you when you do – the fear you have of being found out. Hear the quickened pulse of the guilty.” Geralt quirks one eyebrow, and his lips twitch. “And I imagine you have more to gain from impressing her than attempting to fool me.”

Jaskier grins wickedly. “And yet, whose bed do I find myself in, time and time again?”

Geralt smiles. “Well, if you gained as much coin from this venture as you claim, you are welcome to pay for another room. Tell me, what of the sylvan? I hope you did not try to slay it.”

Jaskier scoffs in mock offense. “You think after all these years I haven’t learned a thing or two? I was aware most sylvans are essentially peaceful, if rather selfish. And so I tracked the thing down by following a trail of angry wives with empty cupboards, and found the thing in a storehouse. Naturally, it was gorging on jams, a face smeared with the stuff. I said, ‘Listen here, sylvan, you can’t just go around stealing food!’ And the sylvan roared and said ‘Back off, you ugly clod. This is mine.’ And so I said, ‘It most surely isn’t, you thief, for whoever heard of a sylvan getting a storehouse of food through honest work?’ – perhaps I was a bit insulting, there, but he had insulted my good looks and so I felt it fair game.”

Jaskier pushes his hair out of his eyes, grinning. His brown locks have grown wild in the past few months, long and uncut. The bard still carries the well-groomed appearance of a nobleman – a styling that Geralt himself never mastered, or wanted to master – but something about him now seems rougher, less refined. Perhaps it is simply the result of months at Geralt’s side, living life at a pace that does not allow for expensive city barbers.

“–And he said, ‘Well, the fact is, I won the key to this shed from a farmer,’ and I said, ‘Won? More like tricked him, I’m sure!’. And the sylvan seemed to admit to that, and then pleaded that the Blight – well, he called it something else, but the Blight nevertheless – had left him without much food in the valley, and he was desperately hungry. ‘Please,’ he said, and what could I say to that? And so I told him that if he stayed here, the villagers would eventually kill him – but if helped the farmer watch over his crops, and kill any pests that bothered the produce, the villagers would surely welcome him, and give him the food he desired freely.”

“And the farmer agreed to that?” Geralt asks, impressed.

“Uh, well. I told the farmer you were the one to do the witchering, and come up with the solution, and he believed me when I said it was the best outcome. Not that it matters – it turns out the farmer had just been too afraid to approach or argue with him, thought he was the devil incarnate. He paid me a grand sum for my – well, as he saw it, _your_ – courage. You should have seen the sylvan, nothing like the one we met long ago. He was a great, looming, enormous thing, covered in roils of fat and emitting a horrendous stench. Horns the size of short swords, and twice as sharp.”

“And I suppose you learned how sharp the horns were while _not_ being cut by them,” Geralt says drily.

“A bit of embellishment, Geralt, poetic license. The cut was actually – well, one of the housewives I came across seemed to er – remember me,” Jaskier says, scratching his moustache. “And I, unfortunately, did not show her the same courtesy – anyway, it ended with raised voices rather a lot of smashed pots – I believe _this_ cut, however, is the result of me fleeing for my life out of a window recently smashed through with a flying saucepan.” Jaskier shrugs. “It’s not very deep, I assure you. I think it will heal faster than yours.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but he is satisfied with Jaskier’s answer. “Trust you, Jaskier, to find more danger in wives than in witchering.”

Jaskier grins. “Oh, the women have always known they are but a distraction from my true love,” he says, and then looks at Geralt. “Do you think if we visit the spot where we met Filavandrel, he’ll appear and grant me another lute? The thought of playing with another fills my heart with sorrow.”

“If only you were so loyal to your women,” Geralt replies, smiling. More seriously, he adds, “Filavandrel was hiding in Silver Towers, last I heard. The Scoia'tael have resented him for the last few years, after he sided with Francesca on their banishment.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue in sympathy. “That must not have been an easy choice to make.”

“I imagine not,” Geralt says, thinking of the defiant, proud young elf they had first met decades ago.

They reminisce for a while, passing back and forth anecdotes about their early adventures in Aedirn. Jaskier procures a vial of red-hued liquid, and announces to Geralt he has made a Swallow potion with the celadine and berbercane he had collected during the day. After some dubious sniffing, and a liberal dose of dwarven spirits, Geralt accepts the potion and drinks a mouthful of the concoction. Jaskier crows in delight.

“You swallowed my Swallow! You know, all those Liberal Arts really do feel useless next to this one success. Perhaps I should have looked into an additional degree in medicine.”

Eventually they fall into a comfortable silence, lying side by side, listening to crickets chirping outside in the fields and watching the stars twinkle through the wide windows.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, after a time, rolling over so he faces Geralt. “You _are_ getting better, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean? My wound has scabbed over.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, apprehensively. “It’s just that it doesn’t usually take this long to mend a cut like that, does it?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, continuing to gaze at the night sky. He knows what Jaskier is getting at, but refuses to acknowledge it out loud.

“I’m going to sleep,” he announces abruptly, instead of following that train of thought any further. “I’m waking you up early tomorrow morning. I’ve had enough of lying around in this bed.”

Jaskier slaps him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, so I spend all day running around doing quests, and fetching supplies, and getting coin, and making you a bloody witcher potion, and you thank me with an early wakeup call? I have never shown _you_ such ingratitude…”

“Sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, closing his eyes.

“It’s nearly a full moon tonight,” Jaskier observes, “and I like to think I am getting good at this witchering thing. Perhaps I should take out a werewolf or two.”

“You’ll stay right here,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier laughs.

* * *

Despite Geralt’s threats, it is Jaskier who wakes Geralt the next day with a tray of breakfast, complete with a small vase of pink and white aster flowers.

“Did Arianna give you these?” Geralt teases, feeling his stomach rumble as he tears a bread roll open. Jaskier sits down at the foot of the bed, meticulously avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

“I, um,” Jaskier says, uncharacteristically fidgety, “Picked them up while I was retrieving the celadine, yesterday.” He looks up at Geralt again, although his face is still flushed. “The food is from the kitchens, though. Elisabetta – the old woman we met yesterday – she cooked for us. I ate with them downstairs, so have your fill. It’s all yours.”

Geralt raises his eyes at the bard, but otherwise makes no comment, busy wolfing down the fresh bread and eggs. “ _Fuck_ , this is good,” he sighs, closing his eyes as he savours the feeling of warm food entering his belly.

“A nice change to trail mix and barely-seasoned game, I agree,” Jaskier says, smirking. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. And just in time to drink your health away at the Feste of the Scythe, no less.”

Geralt tilts his head. “It’s Lammas Eve already? I had almost forgotten our purpose here, with this damned fever.”

Jaskier nods. “This evening. Apparently, they hold the festival down in the valley, in the ruins between Upper and Lower Posada. Perhaps they feel it brings them closer to the elven ancestors.” He shrugs. “Regardless, we should attend, if you’re feeling up to it. It _is_ the time when Dana Meadbh – Lyfia – whatever she’s called – is most likely to show her face to mortals.”

“Oh, well if it’s for the good of the world,” Geralt says, lips quirking up in a teasing smile. “I would hate to think that you enjoy festivals, Jaskier.”

“Me? Never,” Jaskier says, throwing a hand over his heart in feigned horror. “You know me, Geralt. You cannot tear me away from a good hearth, knitting needles, and the Good Book.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he smiles despite himself. They sit for a moment in companionable silence, and the air becomes suffused with something pleasant and sweet. It is _nice_ , here in the Valley of Posada; the heat was intolerable on their journey, but now that Geralt has a room with shade and a cool breeze, it is downright luxurious. And for once, his nose is greeted not by the smell of piss and shit and sick, but by the scent of golden fields, fresh hay, and the pots of lavender sitting just outside their window. Such things seem like fragments from another world; they might as well be paintings in a storybook, for all they resembled the state of the world outside Dol Blathanna.

Selfishly, Geralt wishes for a moment that Dana Meadbh will not make an appearance to them tonight – that he could ask for more days in this place, quietly sitting with Jaskier at his side, with bee and bird song a more familiar noise than the sound of clashing swords and screaming ghosts.

Geralt startles from his reverie when he hears a loud exhale outside their door, and realises someone is outside, listening in.

“You can enter,” he says loudly.

Jaskier turns around in surprise as Arianna opens the door. She looks terrified, as though Geralt will bite off her head at any moment. He _should_ probably be angry with her for eavesdropping, but the food and heat has put him in an agreeable, lethargic mood.

“Are you coming to the festival tonight?” Geralt asks instead, attempting to be a little kinder to her than he was yesterday.

The girl blushes and drops her gaze. “No, sir. I am not allowed. They do not like foreigners there – they claim it is bad fortune. The elves are very superstitious with their rituals, and it is only because the Posadans have been here so long they are allowed to share bread at the same festival.”

“But – that’s ridiculous!” Jaskier blusters. “ _They_ were the outsiders a few years ago!”

Arianna’s eyes flicker up to Jaskier, then back down to the floor. “I believe,” she says hesitantly, “that the elves and humans can only get on so well now because they hate a common foe. Elf or human, all in Posada despise outsiders. So if missing out on the festival brings them into harmony, I do not think it a large sacrifice.”

“Absolutely ludicrous,” Jaskier mutters.

“Even so,” Arianna says, chewing her lip. She looks up at Geralt, hesitant. “Jaskier said that – um, you said you wanted to see the Queen of the Fields, yes?”

“Yes,” Geralt confirms. “We need to talk with her.”

“She has not been seen in many years,” the girl whispers, eyes wide. As though to make up for her previous shyness around him, she now stares unabashedly at Geralt with alarming intensity. “It is said she appears only to those who she blesses, the chosen few who are purest of heart.”

“Well,” Jaskier declares sardonically, “That’s me out then.”

Geralt huffs a breath of amusement. “That criteria aside,” he says to Arianna, “Are there any legends about how best to please her and be graced with her blessings?”

Arianna nods, reverent. “It is said she favours virgins, young lovers and those who are approaching death,” she recites. “But at the Feste of the Scythe, everyone also drinks a special alcohol which is made in the ancient ways to purify your soul.”

“Oh, yes, I know this one,” Jaskier says. “At Oxenfurt, we called it Dana’s Mead.”

Arianna gives him a withering, unimpressed look. “It is mead, yes,” she admits. “Made with a base of ancient yeast, that was blessed with magics of the old elves.” She looks wistful. “I had some last year. Mistress Elisabetta collected some for me from the festival. It was – like a drink made of dandelions. So light, but once you had some it filled your belly with warmth. Warmth and… lightness. Satisfaction. It really does make one’s heart hum with peace.”

Her eyes glaze over as she remembers the experience, and Geralt cannot stop the scepticism that enters his tone when he replies with a measured “Mhmm.”

“I’ve always wanted to try the brew, actually,” Jaskier says enthusiastically. Catching Arianna’s eye, he adds hastily, “For, um. Academic purposes.”

“My friend famously only ever gets drunk in the name of intellectual furtherment,” Geralt says sarcastically to Arianna. She blushes and giggles.

“I’m sure his pursuits are very worthy,” she says, with the unmistakable undertone of a woman falling for Jaskier’s charm hook, line and sinker.

 _Hmm,_ Geralt thinks. To Jaskier, he asks, “Do you think they will let us attend the festival? We don’t exactly blend in, and if they hate outsiders...”

Jaskier, however, grins. “The farmer I completed the contract for – he said he would gladly give us free food and drink at the festival. Surely that means we are welcome?”

Arianna makes a small disbelieving noise in her throat, which is quiet enough that it is likely only Geralt notices it.

“Perhaps if I complete some more Witcher Quests today, I can win more favour from the local people,” Jaskier continues, winking at Arianna with cavalier flirtatiousness. “By the time the festival starts, none of them will be able to resist me!”

Geralt rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “No witcher contracts. If you see someone needing help, fine. But anything dangerous is out of the question.”

“I know, I know,” Jaskier replies in a sing-song voice. “Don’t worry, I can hardly leave you on your own. Who would take care of you?”

The bard aims his most exasperating shit-eating grin at them both, and then waves a hand in farewell as he gallops off. Geralt is left alone with Arianna, and he regards the girl curiously.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of – of course, sir,” the girl says, her consonants affecting a stronger Toussaintois emphasis. Geralt can tell she is nervous to be left alone with him; if the sudden strengthening of her accent had not clued him in, he would have known from the quick tremor of her heartbeat. Her youth and nervousness seem so foreign. _Someone unscathed by the Blight,_ he realises.

“Nothing important. Just wondering if there were any jobs around here that I could help with, odds and ends to make coin.”

Arianna shakes her head. “Your friend already asked that, and I told him what I told you. Even if I could find people needing help, those in Posada are very tight with their coin these days, particularly when it comes to paying outsiders.”

“I imagine you have some experience with that.”

“Yes,” Arianna sighs, and then blushes and ducks her head. “Oh!” she exclaims. “But I don’t mean to be rude. They’ve been most accommodating, all things considered. Mistress Elisabetta in particular has been very kind, taking me in as she did. In other places, I was kicked out into the street as soon as I said I wouldn’t… do certain things for them.”

 _Not so innocent, then,_ Geralt thinks. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Arianna shakes her head, smiling and humming in her throat. “I suppose the world can be a cruel place for an idealist.”

She pauses, and takes Jaskier’s posy to display on the windowsill. Geralt doesn’t interrupt as she hums a sweet tune and rearranges the flowers. Something in her manner has changed, and she no longer looks as timid as she did when they first met yesterday.

“I find idealists who have suffered misfortune are either very foolish or very wise,” Geralt comments. “It takes a lot of faith to believe there is fundamental good in an unjust world.”

Arianna smiles politely, but defers the implicit question. “My parents died when I was young. I used to tell my friends at the orphanage that they were killed in a bandit attack, but the truth is that my father gambled his way into debt, and the debt collectors got violent. And then… a few years later, an uncle turned up out of nowhere. Took me from Toussaint to Kaedwen, and barely spoke to me until we arrived. I was terrified, but I never spoke a word of complaint… until I learned he was going to sell me to pay his own debts. Ship me off to gods-know-where. So, I ran. Kept moving until I found this place, where they pay me well enough.”

She gives Geralt a half-shrug, and smiles again. She is beginning to remind him strongly of Jaskier, with those smiles. The way that, recently, the bard’s casual grins had seemed to mask some deeper wisdom of the world that Geralt was not party to.

 _She has far too large a spirit for so small a hamlet_ , Geralt thinks.

“Ever think of leaving?” Geralt asks. “Cities welcome foreigners far better than rural villages.”

“Maybe one day,” Arianna says, and pushes the window pane open. A warm, summer breeze rushes into the room. It rustles the curtains, and the picks up strands of the girl’s hair to play with. She turns her face into the sunlight and the wind, and closes her eyes for a moment in bliss. “It’s not so bad, here. This valley has been protected by Danamebi,” she says, slurring the goddess’s name into the bastardised Northerner pronunciation, “and these people still have food, and grass, and skin free of sores and pustules. The goddess blesses us with peace – the war marches around us, and leaves the blood here unshed. It is not so different from my home in Toussaint. We lived simply there, too, and found beauty in that simple happiness.”

“I guess I can see the appeal of this place, when you put it like that,” Geralt replies, watching the shadows of the curtains dance across her face.

“My mother used to tell me that even in the darkest times, there is always light,” Arianna says, cradling the pendant chained around her neck. “Sometimes I think this place is like that. A small corner of the world that stays pure, as the rest grows more poisoned each day.”

“For your sake, I hope it stays that way.”

“Mm,” Arianna hums. “But we can choose to see that light, too. Moments of love, and kindness. People helping each other. Strangers and families both.”

“Awfully optimistic.”

She tilts her head up with a wry smile, and her eyes catch on his. “No. Darkness and light cannot exist without each other. You can always find ugliness in beauty, but so too can you find beauty in ugliness.”

Geralt doesn’t think he could find much ugliness in Arianna, who is as radiant and shining in the light as Dana Meadbh herself. Any reply he might have catches in his throat. It feels like saying something to her in this moment would rupture the magic, like startling a deer from a clearing. In the far distance, Geralt hears someone playing a fiddle – a soft, sweet sound. 

“So,” Arianna continues, “I hope you find more beauty in this world, Witcher. So that it might show you the way in the darkness.”

She draws back from the light, fastening the window open with a clip on the wall. The magic – whatever it was – is lost.

“Thanks for the advice,” Geralt says, finding his voice after a moment. “Personally, I’ve always found a good Cat potion works just as well for seeing in the dark.”

If the acidic comment offends her, she makes no sign of it, her smile unchanged. She reminds him strongly of the young priestesses of Melitele, who would look up at him with bashful, innocent eyes, and yet at the same time possess wisdom beyond their years.

“Potions run out, no? You cannot hide forever behind clever words, sir. I had heard that witchers had no emotions, but if I have seen anything from the last few days it is that those stories are untrue.”

Her comment irks him, although he cannot say why. Jaskier would mock him for being so contradictory. _Don’t want them to think you a monster, Geralt, but don’t want them to think you have a heart, either!_

“I _am_ different,” Geralt says defensively. “Don’t romanticise something you don’t understand into something you do. You’ll let your idealism blind you to the dangers in this world.”

She isn’t dissuaded at all by his retort. On the contrary, she seems to welcome his argument with a sparkle that dances in her brown eyes. “I don’t doubt you’re dangerous, Witcher, but from what I’ve seen of you, you would sooner hurt yourself than hurt someone like me. Doesn’t that make me observant, rather than blind? To see beauty, where others would see something to hate?”

“Mm,” Geralt grunts noncommittally. Let Jaskier hear more of her philosophising. _The two of them would get on splendidly,_ he thinks resentfully. Geralt, on the other hand, has too much of Yennefer still in him to stand for much more of this dogma. She is beginning to sound like an Eternal Fire priest.

“Girl like you should be out there appreciating the beauty in young love, rather than sitting in this room talking to a man like me,” he says, aiming for a distraction to this line of conversation. She blushes, as he guessed she would.

“Oh, well. You’re not so old…”

_Hmm._

“…or your companion, for that matter.”

Geralt blinks. He thought he was reading her reactions correctly, but it’s still astonishing whenever Jaskier manages to make women fall for him. His manner with them is so overly exuberant, his appearance so garish, and his temperament so flighty, that Geralt does not understand why the maidens and matrons of the Continent flock to his bed in droves.

 _No accounting for taste,_ Geralt thinks. He finds himself saying, far more harshly than he intends, “He’s older than he looks.”

“Oh,” Arianna says, flustered and wrong-footed by Geralt’s anger. “Um, I thought – your friend mentioned something about your recent heartbreak, so I apologise if… I wouldn’t want to upset you, or flaunt such a thing about …”

 _Damn you, Jaskier._ He realises, now, why the girl’s manner has changed – she and Jaskier had clearly had lengthy conversations while Geralt was out cold. He has no real interest in Arianna, and he is used to Jaskier talking more than he should… but still, something about the interaction vexes him. He knows, however, that his dislike is irrational, and so he backtracks hastily.

“No, no. My apologies for speaking out of turn. If you want to… pursue something, don’t let me stand in your way.”

“Oh,” Arianna says, flushing a bright red. “Erm, thank you.”

Something like jealousy is stinging in his heart, but it is the small-minded jealousy of a child being denied something they don’t need.

“Can’t say I understand it,” Geralt mutters, just because he’s feeling petty.

Arianna’s already wide eyes grow wider with surprise. “You jest, surely. _You_ are handsome, yes – I imagine you are always surrounded by handsome people, and used to their presence. Master Jaskier mentioned that your sorceress was one of the most beautiful women in the world. But he himself has eyes as pure as lake water in the sun, and his smile…”

“Alright, alright,” Geralt says hastily. “I meant more than his looks.”

“He is charming,” Arianna says, “but besides that, he is wise, and empathetic, and kind. I see that kindness in his eyes when he looks at you, takes care of you. You are both rare souls in a small village like this, but his soul shines brightly even next to yours.”

Geralt finds himself a little lost for words. He regrets bringing the girl out from her shell, now that she is waxing poetic about beauty and souls with as much sincere enthusiasm as Jaskier. _They really would make a good match,_ he thinks, somewhat regretfully. If he believed that Jaskier could have a good match, and not merely lose interest after a week as he had done with countless others…

 _Come to think of it_ , Geralt realises, _I haven’t seen Jaskier pull out his seduction routine for a while._ Perhaps his friend really had matured, and Arianna was charmed not by his antics, but by the person underneath. The person that Geralt thought only the bard’s closest friends saw.

And if Jaskier is no longer being ridiculous with women, then perhaps he has a chance at true love.

“I’ll… mention your interest,” Geralt says eventually, realising she is expecting a reply of some kind.

“Oh! You needn’t, but I appreciate it all the same,” Arianna says, blushing and smiling like a loon. “Thank you so much, Sir Geralt. I see the tales of your kindness were not exaggerated at all.” She bows as she leaves, abandoning Geralt to deal with a peculiar sinking feeling in his stomach. It turns his gut with something akin to nausea.

 _Must be the sickness,_ Geralt thinks. He decides to take a quick nap, so that his breakfast doesn’t come up the wrong way. He gulps down a fresh mouthful of Jaskier’s potion, and lets the summer heat guide him gently to unconsciousness. The witcher very deliberately keeps his mind blank as he seeks out sleep. He does not want to think about why his wounds are still aching, long after his mutagens and potions should have healed them.

If he only took half his usual dosage of Swallow, it’s just a precaution. Nobody – certainly not Jaskier – has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are NPCs called ‘shady individuals’ in _The Witcher 3_ , so I couldn’t resist a little shout out. 
> 
> Jaskier’s horse in the books is called Pegasus. I think he would go with themed naming for other horses too.
> 
> This chapter mostly uses the TV canon for inspiration. I’m keeping the TV canon that Geralt met Jaskier in Posada, and not in Gulen… although their book meeting was shouted out in the first chapter, for those who noticed! In addition, The Queen of the Fields was never part of this version of ‘The Edge of the World’/‘Four Marks’, and so we are assuming Geralt has never knowingly encountered this goddess before.
> 
> The first line of Lambert’s limerick is from _The Witcher 3_ , the second line of the Lambert limerick I found somewhere on reddit. I cannot trace the original author unfortunately, but all credit to them.
> 
> Jaskier being genre savvy is his MO (at least in the show and games), so sometimes he will get a little metatextual. Just a little, as a treat.
> 
> The difference in the sylvan’s appearance is a reference to the disparity between the games and other sources.
> 
> Arianna’s philosophising takes inspiration from Westworld’s ‘I choose to see the beauty’ monologue.
> 
> For clarification; Witcher potions are lethal to normal humans. Geralt is worried his enhanced metabolism is not working correctly, so he’s reducing potential toxicity effects by not consuming a full dosage.


	17. Lammas - Part Two

Geralt is not sure how Jaskier went about trying to ‘win favour’ during the day, but it is clear by late afternoon that his attempts were unsuccessful. The hospitable warmth in Upper Posada begins to rapidly cool as the Feste of the Scythe draws near, curious glances curdling into sour scowls. It seems that Arianna had been right about outsiders being unwelcome on Lammas Eve. Geralt supposes the villagers believe they must guard their blessings and prevent the secrets to their good fortune from being stolen away. With the valley so resistant to the Blight, he cannot say that the reasoning is entirely irrational.

“I was _nice_ to people,” Jaskier hisses under his breath, as they pass by a dozen baleful glares. “I gave children _flowers._ ”

For some reason, the bard receives a disproportionate number of these pointed looks as they walk down to the ruins of Old Posada. If anything, it seems his attempts at public relations have made him even _more_ unwelcome amongst the locals. Perhaps, Geralt reasons, he had run into more of his ex-lovers, or offended a local blacksmith by belittling the size of his hammer.

Geralt, on the other hand, had chosen not to talk to anyone in town during the day. Instead, he had strolled along the outer valley, finding the occasional ingredient to help replenish his alchemy supplies. This strategy seems to have been far more beneficial to their cause than Jaskier’s, as Geralt garners looks tending more towards cold indifference than outright disgust. It might have also helped that he had removed his armour, and was wearing a simple white shirt in its place. His swords, too, had been left behind in their room. If it weren’t for his golden eyes and ashen hair, he might even blend in amongst the villagers. Jaskier, in contrast, had donned an extremely flamboyant ensemble; a shining silver doublet, embroidered with intricate patterns on the sleeves and striped slits that revealed an indigo lining. Geralt doesn’t know if the doublet was one retrieved at Ban Ard, or is newly purchased from a local tailor. He’s always pondered how much Jaskier’s outfits cost, but when he had asked, the bard had simply waved a hand and claimed they were a ‘business investment’. His current dress is certainly is good at attracting attention, Geralt will admit that much. Jaskier looks so dazzling that even Geralt can barely tear his eyes away.

The ruins of Old Posada are beautiful, particularly when bathed in the glow of the setting sun. Geralt suspects a large complex once stood on these grounds, perhaps a palace or a sprawling temple. Most of the walls have crumbled away entirely, the tallest standing no higher than Geralt. But for some reason – maybe due to a different kind of stone used in their construction – the archways and columns have remained relatively unscathed. It is as though an enormous skeleton has been stranded on the valley floor, bound into place by vines and bushes.

Under the longest remaining colonnade, the people of Upper and Lower Posada have created something of a base camp. They appear to have dragged half their villages with them to the festival; tables and chairs aplenty lie strewn upon the grass, and there is more food and mead laid upon the tables than is entirely sensible. It is a bizarre experience, to see the people of this valley celebrating a bountiful harvest when those all around the Continent suffer in such scarcity. But Geralt supposes that there is nothing to be done to remedy that save for stopping the Blight – which is why they are here, after all.

“May we,” Jaskier says boldly to a squinting, tanned man sitting behind a table of food and drink – “have some of our promised pay?”

The man chews at a blade of dry wheat, wheezing slightly as he takes it out of his mouth and exhales. “I keep my word,” he says slowly. “You’ll want to keep away from the crowds tonight, mind. ’Specially the elves. Don’t like strangers at the festival. Don’t think they won’t do nothin’ violent-like, not with you bein’ a witcher ‘n’ all, but you’d best find a nice spot in a field somewhere out that way,” he says, gesturing towards the dark expanses of farmland down the valley, “or you’ll get a mighty glarin’.”

“I’m used to glaring,” Geralt says shortly. “We’ll take two tankards of mead, a loaf of bread, and a bowl of soup each.”

They find a place to sit amongst the rubble of an old mill, the crumbled stones hewn smooth by the chisel of centuries of wind and rain. Around them, similar ruins encircle an empty space that Geralt assumes was once the equivalent of a village green. In the middle of the clearing, a crackling bonfire has been set up at the feet of a weathered statue. The large pillars that circle the clearing, broken and battered, speak to a civilisation of far greater ambition than the one currently camping in its carcass.

They continue to get hostile looks from the villagers, but for the most part the Posadans simply give them a wide berth.

“You look better,” Jaskier comments, as he drags a wooden spoon through his steaming soup. “I’d like to take credit for that, but I’m honestly not sure that the Swallow did anything you wouldn’t have done on your own.”

It’s an invitation, but not one Geralt will take. “I’m fine,” he grunts, shovelling his own spoonful of soup into his mouth. He winces as it burns his tongue and palate, and sloshes the broth awkwardly around in his mouth to cool it down. Jaskier raises both eyebrows at Geralt pointedly, and the witcher rolls his eyes. “Hot soup,” he mumbles, once he’s swallowed the mouthful.

Jaskier smirks, but keeps his usual snide remarks in check. “Perilous potage aside, I was worried there for a time. It’s good to see you back to your usual grouchy self.”

“Yeah,” Geralt says roughly. He doesn’t know why guilt is prickling at him. He _has_ recovered, the skin over his wound nearly stitched back together and his energy restored. To worry Jaskier over any lingering concerns would only be counterproductive.

A lone cat wanders towards Jaskier, and mewls at him with large, doleful eyes.

“Don’t bother,” Geralt mutters, even as Jaskier obediently strips off a piece of his bread, and tosses it to the creature.

“Just because _you_ have a feud with the feline race, Geralt,” Jaskier says prissily. Sure enough, as soon as Geralt shifts closer to the cat, it hisses violently and scampers away into the darkness. “Why do you think they hate witchers, anyway? You share the same eyes; you’d think that would mark you out to them as friend and not foe.”

“Perhaps it is disconcerting to them, seeing such a large cat that smells so vile,” Geralt shrugs, as he demolishes his own portion of bread into tiny pieces and scatters them amongst the soup. “They probably see me the same way humans do; a cursed member of their own species, to be shunned and feared.”

“Not _all_ humans,” Jaskier murmurs. He sips on his mead and exclaims with delight. “Bloody hell! This is… this is _heavenly_ …”

Geralt takes a gulp of his own drink, and a pleasant, froth-like substance washes over his tongue and seeps down his throat. His body feels immediately lighter, and the more he drinks of it the headier the feeling gets. Most miraculous of all, the stinging burns in his mouth are instantly vanquished.

“No wonder they don’t want to share,” Jaskier continues, enthralled. “They could sell this for a small fortune if they did – I’ve never tasted anything like it! Those elves really knew their stuff, huh?”

Geralt hums in agreement. They both go back to the farmer’s table for second and third and fourth rounds of the mead, heedless of the villagers’ dark looks. By the time darkness has settled around the camp, they are well and truly intoxicated.

“We should start praying to Dana Meadbh,” Jaskier says, giggling for no particular reason. “You know. O goddess, with thine huge and benevolent tits, although not as magnificent and luminous as that of your mother Melitele–”

“Oi, you!” yells an antagonistic voice behind them. “Witcher git!”

Geralt sighs, and stands up. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, but he still towers above their would-be assailant. “You have a problem?”

The man is pockmarked and greasy looking, with his face flaming red with anger and alcohol. Ordinarily, Geralt is sure that such a weedy man would never confront a witcher in person – but he is clearly just as intoxicated as they are.

“Yeah,” the man says, swaying dangerously and wielding a mostly-empty tankard in one hand. “You think you’re some shit, eh! Coming ‘round here, with those big swords!”

“Yes, all three are enormous,” Jaskier says with a straight face. “Stuff of legends.” Geralt starts sniggering despite himself, and Jaskier’s mouth twitches as he struggles not to join in.

“’S’not funny!” the man spits. “I’ll run you outta here, just you wait!” He stumbles forward, foot colliding with a mossy stone, and goes tumbling head first into the overgrown grass.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says with utter sincerity. “I am afraid we have met our match. Here, in Old Posada, our bodies will lie for all time.”

“They lived, they loved, they died. A tragedy in three parts,” Jaskier sniffs, raising his empty cup to the sky. “Long may they sing songs of us, two noble friends, bested at last by a drunk buffoon – Geoffrey, may I call you Geoffrey? – Geoffry of Posada–”

The man raises himself up on one arm, only to collapse again into the grass. “It’s _Gunter,_ ” he shrieks, “and I will kill yeh for this!”

“We’d best flee at once,” Geralt says, watching the man’s slow progress to stand.

“Oh yes, immediately,” Jaskier agrees, leisurely draining the last of his soup. “Shall we, then? Race you to that nice-looking meadow over there?” He grins at Geralt, and leaps over the crumbling wall they had used for shelter, sprinting out towards the fields beyond.

“Fuck,” Geralt murmurs, and follows after him. His stomach lurches, politely reminding him that he is likely to vomit if he attempts any vigorous exercise right now. He ignores it, exulting in the rebellion.

They run. Long strands of grass sway back and forth in the breeze, giving way to fields of ripening wheat that brush up against Geralt’s waist. The stars and moon have already emerged to officiate the coming of night, even though the sky itself is still the deep purple-red of a mottled bruise. As they race further and further out, the music of the festival fades into the background, replaced by chirping crickets and cawing ravens.

Eventually, Jaskier stops right in the middle of the meadow, raising his mostly-empty tankard to the sky. “Here we camp!” he declares. “Let the Queen of the Fields just _try_ to ignore the two extraordinarily handsome gentlemen awaiting her!”

Geralt laughs, and pushes Jaskier over playfully. His friend looks back at him, grinning, moonlight dancing in his eyes and glinting against his teeth. The alcohol makes Geralt feel warm and high spirited. The emotions he usually keeps at bay are rushing forward, swallowing him whole. He feels like a child, sprinting through a forest. He feels the warmth of watching Ciri grow up in Kaer Morhen. He feels – everything. Any simmering anxiety or concerns he may have had simply melt away. He feels like a sword, once rusted and dented, now newly forged into a perfectly balanced blade.

“Jaskier,” he says, words falling from his lips without his consent. “Jaskier. I feel,” he reports, smiling.

Jaskier’s smile goes from exuberant to awed, and Geralt belatedly checks behind him to see if Dana Meadbh has appeared.

“No,” Jaskier says, chuckling. “You. You’re _smiling_ , Geralt. With _teeth._ ”

Geralt hastily tries to school his expression, only to fail very quickly and find himself smiling down at Jaskier again. Jaskier howls with laughter, his cackles echoing across the wide field. “Gods, you should act in the comedies!”

Geralt can’t restrain his grin now. “Jaskier,” he says, helpless to stop the words from spilling out. “Jaskier.”

“Yes,” Jaskier grins. “Come, Geralt. Lie with me. Let us watch the stars, and pray for a miracle.”

The bard tips over, sinking contentedly into grass that graciously flattens beneath his weight. Geralt can’t stop staring at him. He has never been so grateful for his enhanced eyes – it lets him see the pink blush in his friend’s cheeks, the spray of freckles across his nose, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes as he laughs. Geralt wants to memorise him like this, filled with elven mead and happy – truly happy.

“Why were you so sad, for so long?” Geralt asks. He sits beside Jaskier, staring out across the field back to the lights and dancing shadows from the festival. He does not want to see his companion’s smile wither on his mouth, and yet he feels the question is important. “You tell me so much, and yet you would not tell me this.”

“Would you know everything about me, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, philosophically. “Would you spin my tapestry out into a single thread of yarn, until I am no more clever or interesting than the next man?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Geralt accuses, but his tone is light and playful. Jaskier, however, is suddenly rather sober.

“I _am_ answering you,” Jaskier huffs. “I suppose it’s just better for you to overcomplicate the answer, rather than I tell you the truth and you think me dull as a consequence.”

“Never dull,” Geralt vows. “Exasperating, perhaps. Grating, yes. Infuriating, certainly–”

“Yes, alright,” Jaskier says, his smile returning. He sits up and pushes at Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt moves slightly in response so as to be a good sport. “I’ll answer you truly if you figure it out. That, I swear.”

Geralt thinks. Far away, he sees two lovers laugh and break away from the celebrations, running a little way into the fields just as they had.

“You were sad when Oxenfurt burned,” Geralt hedges. “The Blight has unsettled everything you knew… and now you are forced to wander with me, for lack of a place to safely call home?”

“Forced?” Jaskier scoffs. “Geralt, I do not know what strange thoughts have been running through your head these past few months, but let me assure you. As I said in Ban Ard – I _choose_ to be here.” He puts one hand companionably on Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt can feel the heat of his palm through the thin cotton of his shirt. “It makes me happy.”

“Then why does part of you fear me?” Geralt asks. He uses Jaskier’s arm to take him by surprise and roll on top of him, pressing him into the grass with a light tap. The bard goes down easily – even without Geralt’s strength, he is too pliant from the mead.

“Oof, Geralt, get off – you great brute!” Jaskier laughs. Geralt watches him, tracing his happiness as it passes from his eyes to his mouth, and then finally into shoulders that shake with silent laughter. There is no fear in his eyes, no trace of the falsity that sometimes mars his smile. They are, at most, inches apart. Geralt’s knees are splayed out on either side of Jaskier’s, trapping the bard where he lies.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs again, stroking up his neck with the back of one finger, waiting for – there. Jaskier’s heartbeat, hammering a far quicker beat than Geralt’s own. “I would never hurt you.” He gazes at the bard pleadingly, opening his eyes wide so that Jaskier might see the honesty within them.

“You already have,” Jaskier breathes, “and you will again, Geralt.”

Geralt winces, thinking of the times Jaskier has been injured, close to death, because of him. He thinks of arguments and partings left on ill terms, and cannot argue the point.

“Then why stay?” Geralt whispers. He’s still tracing a path across Jaskier’s neck, as though he might map his friend’s skin and find the truth of his unhappiness somewhere in his pulse.

Jaskier’s breath hitches. “Geralt. Stop. This is categorically unfair.” His smile is fading a little, but there are still the traces of contentment upon his face, and awe still dances in his eyes.

Geralt thinks of the last time they were this close, Jaskier drunk as he is now. At that time, he’d been angry, and had struggled violently underneath Geralt’s body. Now, he lies perfectly still, eyes wide, like a rabbit exhausted from the chase who merely awaits the killing blow. Geralt’s wandering hand skims Jaskier’s cheek, and the bard gives out a small helpless noise and leans into his touch. Geralt can feel his own heart thumping a panicked rhythm, still waiting anxiously for Jaskier’s answer.

“Why stay?” Geralt repeats finally, voice ragged from some unknown desperation.

Jaskier closes his eyes, as though he cannot bear to look at Geralt any longer. He begins laughing again, and the tight knot in Geralt’s chest eases a little, knowing the answer cannot be so terrible if Jaskier finds it amusing.

“An unquestionable rogue,” Jaskier declares, pushing past Geralt and sitting up. He leaps to his feet, hand reaching out to grab his tankard as he goes in a single, graceful movement. “You are cheating. I said you must work out the answer for yourself.”

Jaskier turns to look at him again, his face glowing with the reflection of distant festival lights. Geralt feels his heart skip a beat in his chest, even as it resumes its normal rhythm.

 _I wish we could stay in this moment,_ Geralt thinks, absent-mindedly. _I wish being at my side always made him laugh like this._

“Coming?” Jaskier asks, holding out a hand to Geralt with a teasing grin. Geralt takes it, even though they both know he needs no assistance.

Jaskier swigs a drink from what few drops remains in his vessel, and then they stumble through the dark together. Geralt feels turned inside-out, as though instead of Lammas, they are at the Angrenian festival where paupers trade places with princess for a day. Here, in this field, Geralt feels as though he orbits Jaskier, as though he is the bard and Jaskier is the witcher who leads the way.

“Perhaps we should call out her name,” Jaskier suggests, after a while. They do, ridiculously, alternating between shouting “Lyfia!”, and “Danamebi!”, and “O, Great Queen of the Fields!”, and “Eternal One, we beseech thee!” They snort with giddy laughter as they go, pushing at each other playfully and stumbling over each other and themselves. It is no surprise, then, that when Jaskier sees something and stops short, he trips Geralt up, who in turn falls onto Jaskier.

Both of them lie on the ground, spluttering with the taste of mud in their mouths.

“Dammit, Jaskier,” Geralt swears, spitting out a glob of dirt.

Jaskier shushes him and sits up into a crouch, pointing through the long grasses towards a glowing light in the distance. Geralt uses Jaskier’s back as a crutch, pulling himself up clumsily and leaning over him to peer over the top of the grass. He squints against the light, and realises its emanating from a woman-shaped figure walking towards them. There are tall flowers sprouting underneath her feet, and winged insects that flutter around her head.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier whispers, beside him. Geralt hums in agreement, and then stands straight up, to which Jaskier hisses, “ _Geralt what are you doing_ ,” in a single, rushed breath.

“Queen of the Fields, Dana Meadbh,” Geralt crows, “I welcome thee, to – uh – this meadow!”

“Gods, you’re drunker than I thought,” he hears Jaskier mumble from below, before he, too, stands.

“We beg you to help us with a most noble quest,” Jaskier cries dramatically, “To save the Continent – nay, perhaps – the world!”

The woman is close enough that they can hear her laugh. It sounds like wind chimes, and twittering skylarks.

As the light emanating from the woman fades, Jaskier gasps.

Her golden hair is bound with wreaths of white flowers and leaves. Her eyes are as piercing as Yennefer’s own. A squirrel darts up her legs and hops onto her shoulder, clearly unafraid of the immense power of the being it stands upon.

 _Welcome, Geralt of Rivia,_ _slayer of evil, and Jaskier, singer of songs._ Geralt flinches, feeling the soft voice caress his mind – a gentler touch than either Triss or Yennefer. He hears Jaskier gasp. _I am known by many names, but the one that is truest is Lyfia._

 _We are honoured – humbled by your presence, Lyfia,_ he thinks, hoping she can hear him as Yennefer did. Some of presence swirls about his skull and he senses acknowledgement in its touches.

_I am in turn, honoured by yours. You are the light brought to guide us through the Darkness._

The comment makes something echo in his memory. A flash of a beautiful girl standing at a windowsill, anointed by sunlight.

_Yes. My avatar is rather wise._

_Your avatar?_ Geralt thinks. _Arianna?_

_In every generation there is a person from these villages who acts as my voice. They carry my thoughts and wishes to the valley, so the land I call home might prosper and the plants and animals might escape decimation. I prefer softly-spoken words to threats, for my powers lie in creation, not destruction. And, in my experience – my methods are superior. Mortals may be scared by divine wrath in the short term. But, given enough time, they will eventually see it only as a challenge to be overcome._

_But – Arianna?_ Geralt queries. _She is not even of this village._ He had always imagined the chosen of Dana Meadbh to be pale, fragile looking things.

_Why should that matter? Her heart is pure as snow. When the time comes that I need act, then I will speak through her. None could claim she did not belong here then, not even the elves._

_Touched by the goddess indeed,_ Geralt thinks, remembering the strange magic that had surrounded Arianna in the bedroom. _She is not treated well by the Posadans, you know. She is not allowed to your own festival._

_All is as it must be. To be an outsider, to know what it is to be powerless – true nobility is oft born from such experiences. She will know to offer a helping hand to those suffering as she once did._

Geralt bites back more questions on the validity of Dana Meadbh’s apprenticeship methods. After all, they came here for a reason.

_We met your sister, Sedna, before her death. She knew of this ‘Darkness’, but did not know what it was or how to defeat it. She told us to seek you out, so that you might aid us where she could not._

Geralt feels the goddess take the uneasy knot in his chest and untie it, petting his mind with soothing whispers as though she is calming a frenzied horse. Her thoughts hum with sadness, and love. _Sedna sacrificed herself so that a few more mortals may be spared. My foolish younger sister. She refused to join our siblings when they sacrificed themselves, and then succumbed to her own guilt and despair._

 _You’re angry with her for dying,_ Geralt guesses.

_No. I do not know anger. It is not in my nature. Indeed, I believe Sedna was right to perish, where I stay stubbornly extant. It is becoming clearer to me with each passing day that our time on this plane is always finite, no matter how much we believe it otherwise. It seems I am merely delaying the inevitable, as she did._

_The Blight is killing all of the gods too, then?_ He hears Jaskier’s voice ask, and realises that _Jaskier_ is in his head as well. He had not noticed his presence at all. His mind reaches out to the other, and finds it recoils at his touch, fearful. His companion flinches slightly beside him, but continues to stare at the goddess without any other acknowledgement of Geralt's inquisitive nudge.

_To my knowledge, only two of us remain – myself, and Kreve. The others died in various ways. Many sacrificed themselves only recently, so they might choose the manner of their end._

_Sacrificed themselves?_ Jaskier thinks loudly. Several of his thoughts go barrelling through Geralt’s head at once, as graceless as a boar compared to Lyfia’s delicate touches. _Why? To what end? How many of these gods_ were _there? How many are real?_

Lyfia smiles. _I shall answer your questions as best I can. Please, take your hands in mine – it will make this easier. Your sorceress has constructed a barrier that even I cannot overcome fully without considerable exertion. And I would like to show you this story with my memories, so that they might live on in you._

Geralt immediately holds out his hand, sliding it over the goddess’s own. Jaskier is more hesitant, his eyes darting between Geralt and Lyfia.

 _It’s rude to keep a goddess waiting,_ Geralt thinks at him with a quirk of his eyebrow. Jaskier blushes, and lays his hand on top of Lyfia’s outstretched palm.

Immediately, they are both plunged into a swirling vortex, their minds torn from their bodies and thrust into a crushing whirlpool of energy. Geralt’s experience with Yennefer was something vaguely similar – but Lyfia’s mindscape churns with incomprehensible power far beyond even Yennefer. And now, instead of being drenched with a passing torrent of water, they are the ones voluntarily wading into the unending squall.

 _Hold on to me,_ Geralt mentally shouts at Jaskier. His friend’s mind hesitates for a moment, before tentatively winding around his own. They sink, deeper and deeper into the chasm that seems to stretch on for as long as time itself.

Suddenly, they fall flat onto solid ground. Moist, earthy soil lies beneath their fingers and dark thickets of trees cover the landscape for miles. Somehow, Geralt is able to see things both from the ground and from on high simultaneously. Multiple perspectives shift in and out focus as he struggles to get his bearings based on his projected body.

A confused tangle of memories from this forest that play out in rapid succession, figures blurring together as they move swiftly around the scene. Dark, hooded characters move in and out from one breath to the next, pausing only for a moment to pray at makeshift altars. Geralt realises they are watching years of memories sped up, a cascade of information presented to them faster than they can digest it. Then Lyfia’s voice comes out of the void, and washes over Geralt’s mind as soothingly as a salve over a burn.

_The religions of this world are complicated, and many are incorrect in their central beliefs. However, much of the Northern pantheon is based on worship of our people – a family of outcasts, torn from our world and cast into yours._

The scene melts away beneath their feet, new forms filling the spaces of the old. _A set change_ , Jaskier thinks. Enormous columns of glittering marble rise from ashes, sprawling complexes that make their eyes sting to look at. The architecture of this place is labyrinthine, incomprehensibly complex – and they are looking at it from too many perspectives at once to understand any of it.

_This was our home, once._

They receive visions of Sedna, Lyfia, and other girls, dancing around an inexplicable, vast square of light. Men standing in strange clothes, holding glowing, crackling weapons. A city, magnificent and inscrutable, sitting upon a sea of clouds, high in the mountains. Feasts of food more glorious and foreign than any they have even seen. Figures with flashing eyes, their necks wreathed with jewels and shining metal. Love, warmth, joy – unfathomable bliss, unfathomable bonds to all things and all people.

Then – nothing. Pain, desolation, despair. Grief, overwhelming and as all-consuming as the happiness had been.

_When we were torn from our world and thrown into yours, it became too painful to stay together. It was too much of a reminder of what we had lost. To come from a world where we had everything, to a world where we had nothing, cut off from the Congregation… you have never experienced it, and so you cannot imagine the grief we felt. As one gifted with powers over the mind, I tried to recreate these bonds, forge mental bridges to replace those we had lost. But they were paltry things, and our minds became an archipelago of stranded islands, split from the continent that once defined us. The loss of our community, our family, our very identity… many of us could not survive it._

Lyfia sends them scattered images of gods impaled upon spears and swords, falling to their knees, glowing with power from their eyes, their hands. They watch as magic escapes them, bursting out into the skies.

_Some killed themselves, hoping to be reincarnated in a new body without their memories. Others, like my brother Kreve, chose to bury their pain by imbibing this world, by consuming all the pleasure and pain they could obtain._

They see a vision of a god sitting on a towering throne made of skulls. An endless train of servants march in and out of his hall, carrying countless platters of food and gems. The goods are deposited at a growing mound of treasures, glittering at the foot of his throne.

_Others still chose simply to make a new life, replacing their old family with a new one._

Flashes of Sedna, eyes alight with delight, surrounded by mermaids and sailors who dote on her.

_But to love mortals is a terrible thing, for they are easily killed - and losing the ones we love still sends us into madness._

They are shown their own memories of Sedna, alone in the Cave of Dreams, talking with ghosts. They are shown an old goddess – _Verna,_ they are informed – whose wails echo through the night as her mortal husband lies dead before her. They are shown another overwhelmed by worshippers begging for her help, shoving wailing babies and injured body parts towards her.

 _My mother,_ they are told, and Geralt and Jaskier are hit with a wave of grief and love. _She tried to help all the people of the Continent, and naturally, failed._ They see an old crone helping a sickly man walk, a midwife helping to deliver a child, a young girl bringing herbs to a plague carrier. _Every miscarriage, every death, every instance of misery… she saw herself as responsible for not helping enough. She took all of that grief and guilt into her own heart._

A vision of an angry horde of villages, storming through the woods to a ramshackle house. Freya, begging for mercy, even as she is stabbed through the eye.

 _She could have slain them all,_ Lyfia thinks, with the first inflections of anger. _Instead, she expended all of her powers – her entire existence – to them, curing them of the contagion which afflicted them. I am sure she would never have regretted the sacrifice. She loved all those she considered her children, even mortals – even the ones that delighted in killing mortals, against her wishes and the creed she wished us to abide by._

They see a gigantic figure towering above a village. His eyes glow with bright light, and lightning crackles behind him from dark, ominous clouds.

_My brother’s great weakness – and great strength – is his absence of love for your kind._

They see a massacre, Kreve smiting the villagers who had killed his mother. Lightning crackles down and kills them where they stand. Women and children scream and cry as fire spreads across thatched roofs.

 _And so,_ Lyfia concludes, _I know my brother lives. For he could never lower himself to becoming mortal, to kill himself and embrace death. Even if he, more than any of us, acts more like the very same mortals he so derides._

They are given a vision of a young man in a lurid brothel, drinking and pissing and fucking, laughing as he smashes glasses against a wall.

 _And you?_ Jaskier asks. _You survived all this as he did._

_I have never loved mortals as passionately my mother or sisters. I have never hated them as Kreve does. But I love my family. I always have._

They see a young, silver haired woman stumble into a meadow bursting with scarlet flowers. She weeps, and Lyfia keels before her, embracing the girl in her arms.

_My sister, Nehaleni, had the gift of prophecy. She foresaw the sudden annihilation of this place, and those living here. Yet, she had grown to love this world so much that she decided to use herself as a pawn to stop it. It was she who convinced my remaining brethren to sacrifice themselves, and thereby aid her in fighting the Darkness._

They see three young goddesses, standing in a circle, holding hands. The goddesses weep together, and smile, as their bodies dissolve into shining, shimmering light.

_I survive because I am selfish. In truth, I am no better than Kreve. Only my motives differ. He cannot stand the thought of becoming that which he hates. And I – I cannot stand the thought of losing the story of my family. Our existences are only as immortal as our memories, and those who remember us. I have seen many of my siblings – those who perished, long ago – disappear from history as mortals slowly forget the gods they once worshipped._

_History,_ Jaskier muses. _You mean mythology._

_So speaks the mythologiser. Of all mortals, you should know how much longer history lasts in whispered myths and legends than in written records, so easily destroyed._

They see a flash of the fire at Oxenfurt. Both Geralt and Jaskier’s minds flinch away from the memory. Geralt is not sure whether the initial instinct comes from him or Jaskier. Their individual thoughts are hard to distinguish, sometimes, in this space.

_You of all people know how precious truth, knowledge and memory is. I survive because where Kreve wishes to bury his past, I wish to preserve the memories of who we are, and where we came from. And part of me… part of me dreams of returning to our home. Telling the Congregation of the people we were, and the legends that followed in our footsteps._

_But why_ can’t _you return?_ Jaskier asks. _I should think a god could do anything they wished._

 _There are limits to our powers,_ Lyfia says sadly. _When we were cast from our dimension to yours, our bodies dealt with the change poorly. It is something akin to forcing the entire ocean into a single bottle – we were not made for your world, and your world_ was _not made for us. Our existences were warped, moulded to the Continent itself. So it was we became the gods you know, beings with control over certain components of this world and its magics._

They receive another vision of shadowy goddess standing on a high cliff. Her cape billows out in the wind, her face hidden by a spiked helmet. Below her, an army of men in formation, towards some unseen destination. 

_But because of this unwanted union, we cannot stray too far from the Continent that is now welded to our very beings. Even before this Blight, none of us had the power to traverse worlds. In your world, there exist only a few who possess such a power, and even they have never been strong enough to make the crossing to our home. Our world would obliterate them, just as yours mutilated us._

Geralt thinks he understands why – just the vision of the sprawling metropolis had confounded his brain and warped his understanding of logic. Jaskier's mind seems to dwell on the image, but Geralt pushes their shared consciousness back to the task at hand.

 _The Darkness lies beyond this world,_ Geralt thinks. _So that is why you cannot help us._

 _It is as you say,_ Lyfia replies sadly.

 _But then… how do_ we _find this thing?_

_You find your Child of Destiny. The girl who can traverse the stars._

Bright green eyes and a playful smile.

 _Ciri,_ they both realise. The shared heart between them blooms with hope, set afloat with this confirmation of her survival.

 _Yes,_ Lyfia agrees. _And there is one more who can help you._

_Who?_

_Kreve,_ Lyfia answers, sending them a vision of the towering, bearded man, his face obscured by shadow. _The lord of the sky, in the tales of your people. He takes many forms, and so is always hard to find. But no matter which form he takes, he is always ostentatious. One of his favourite forms, centuries ago, was that of an enormous silver dragon._

They are presented with a vision of dark, stormy clouds. Jaskier yelps in alarm as an enormous beast roars and rushes out of the fog, lightning crackling behind it. The flashes of light illuminate a beast three times larger than any dragon Geralt has ever seen.

 _This Kreve,_ Geralt thinks. _Your sister mentioned him, but did not know how to find him. She said something about brothels, but…_

Lyfia laughs, the sound radiating in their ears and sending waves of happiness through their chests. _She was not wrong. My brother is partial to his pleasures… Including those of the flesh. But I have a stronger sense of where he will be – I still possess some link to my brethren’s minds, however faint. However much they have tried to erase it. You should look for him in Redania, in the city of Tretogor._

 _Tretogor?_ Geralt thinks, in surprise. _Not a particularly large or impressive city, as they go._

Jaskier’s mind hums with disagreement. _A city full of bored government workers. Dull-looking to the average diplomat, I’m sure, but one needn’t stray too far to discover a thriving industry built on dogfighting, racing and gambling. Not to mention, dens of inequity that serve outlandish requests not seen even in Toussaint. The arts scene is not half-bad too – they have a full brass orchestra made of dwarven miners in the nearby Coppertown, you know. One mustn’t judge one’s cultural depth by looks or profession._

Geralt receives an image of a stocky, hairy dwarven woman flicking about a conductor’s baton with supreme delicacy.

 _Tretogor, then,_ Geralt thinks. _And from there – with Yennefer’s help – Ciri._

 _It’s a plan,_ Jaskier thinks, and excitement bubbles back and forth between their minds. To have a purpose and direction beyond this, to be told what they must do – the task ahead suddenly seems far less overwhelming. Almost achievable.

 _But,_ Geralt thinks at Lyfia, _I still do not know how I am to defeat this thing, or even what it is. Even if Ciri is able to take us to this ‘Darkness’ – how can I kill it? With swords? With light?_

 _Perhaps you could bargain with it. Offer your body as payment,_ Jaskier notes dryly, sending Geralt a flash of memory – Yennefer and himself, rolling around on the floor in the collapsed hall at Rinde. He feels too, a sharp stab of amusement and pain tied into the memory – but before he can grasp onto it, Jaskier has withdrawn back, dragging his mind out of their shared bond. Geralt instinctively grabs on, and their minds slip and scratch and slide against each other.

Lyfia answers Geralt’s question, either not noticing or choosing to ignore their mental scuffle.

 _I do not know what you face,_ Lyfia says, her mind weaving contrary feelings of doubt and acceptance through theirs. _I can only see how you can face it._

 _And how is that?_ Geralt asks.

 _By taking the journey you are on,_ she says. _Destiny flows both with and against you. How you navigate the torrential river of Chaos is entirely your own choice, and yet the path that leads you there has already been chosen. The destination is wrought by the journey; Destiny fashioned by choice, and choice formed from Destiny._

 _That doesn’t make any sense_.

 _You do not need to know the answer,_ Lyfia says, her mind’s voice as gentle as a hymn. _Only how to reach it. And if you keep to this path, I believe you shall._

Her mind draws back from their own, and Geralt feels a brush of warm, soothing wind as it leaves.

 _Thank you for all you have told us,_ Geralt thinks, and is momentarily blinded as his brain and eyes both experience an immense flare of light. Her hands leave his own, and he snaps his eyelids open to see the goddess’ radiant face smiling peacefully. Beside him, Jaskier gasps for air as though he has just been saved from drowning.

Lyfia sends a mental nudge against their minds once more. Her voice is strangely quiet, now that Geralt knows how overwhelming and enormous her mindscape is.

 _My power is not what it once was,_ she says regretfully, _but I am capable of some things still. I shall leave you with three gifts; a much-loved companion returned to each of you, and a sanctification for you both. Although the dangers you face are grave, and your journey will be long and difficult… I hope that on this night, in this place – you might be brought some small measure of happiness in my name. While you are in my domain, you shall have my blessing and protection._

She graces their minds with a final touch, and then her presence departs from their thoughts. The bright light flares once more, until Geralt can see nothing but white.

_Good luck, Geralt, slayer of evil, and Jaskier, singer of songs._

The blinding light fades away. Geralt blinks twice, and then exclaims with delight.

“Roach!”

Right upon the spot where the goddess stood, his horse has appeared, complete with saddle, bags, and–

“My lute!” Jaskier yells, rushing towards it. He unhooks the lute from Roach’s saddles and strokes it as delicately as a lost lover. Geralt begins to make towards his sorely-missed steed, but then suddenly notices that they are not alone in the fields. The villagers of Upper Posada surround them, looks of wide-eyed awe painted onto every face.

“Witcher!” one cries, throwing themselves forward towards him. “You have been blessed by the Eternal One!”

“Uh,” Geralt starts, but is interrupted by a chorus of cheering and cries from the others. Now that one man has broken the silence and has not been struck down for it, the Posadans seem honour-bound to begin a cacophony of celebration. He hears stray voices chant “Danamebi’s Chosen!” and “White Wolf! White Wolf!”

He shoots Jaskier an exasperated look, and the bard grins back at him, happily cradling his lute. Roach whinnies and strokes his hoof at the ground uncertainly, unsettled by the excessive noise.

They are almost carried back to the festival. They are grasped at by elves and humans alike, who all seem to believe they can transfer their own blessings through touch alone. They are poked and prodded and petted until Geralt at last throws off the haze of alcoholic lethargy to growl “ _Enough_ ,” and Jaskier screeches “Not the lute!”

Prohibited from this particular activity, the villagers decide to instead guide them to one of the feast-laden tables, gesturing for them to sit and eat as they sing and cheer and dance around them. Geralt knows he should be annoyed at the monumental shift in the Posadans’ attitudes, but any negative emotion has been completely submerged under a buzzing contentment.

The night passes in a blur, the two of them laughing and drinking with the villagers, who in turn listen with delight as Jaskier regales them with tales of their adventures. At some point, Geralt finds himself dancing in between rows of maidens, who all giggle and shoot him bashful looks from under their long, delicate eyelashes. Jaskier chokes with laughter as Geralt trips over himself, and sends one of the girls flying into another.

“ _You_ do it then,” Geralt growls at the bard, who is sitting atop a stack of dried hay bales, watching contentedly as men and women dance around them. “Easy for you to mock from on high.” He notices Roach stealing hay from the bales, chomping on it contentedly, and wonders if the villagers are treating the horse as a divine miracle as well.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says, with an intoxicated drawl. “If you wanted to ask me to dance, you need merely to have asked.”

Geralt’s attention flickers back to Jaskier as he leaps from the top of the bales onto him, colliding with his chest. Geralt catches him, of course, but it takes the wind out of him. He makes a discontented sound as he places Jaskier on the ground.

“There’s my noble knight,” Jaskier says, patting him on the arm. “Shall we?”

He takes Geralt’s hand in his own, and leads him on a merry jig around the fire, the light catching in his eyes as he laughs. Geralt just stares, entranced by the happiness Jaskier is exuding.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” Geralt says, even as he trips into Jaskier. The bard steadies him, smiling widely.

“Usually I’m too busy playing the music,” Jaskier admits. “I’m quite familiar with courtly life, you know. You learn a thing or two,” he concludes, swinging Geralt around so that his back is now to the fire. Geralt goes along with Jaskier’s erratic movements, enjoying the feeling of being taken along to the rhythm of the drums.

That reminds Geralt that he hasn’t heard Jaskier play properly for many months now, between his clouds of melancholy and the fact his lute was taken from him. “Jaskier,” he says slowly. “Would you play tonight?”

Jaskier’s smile fades, staring up at Geralt in disbelief. “You,” he said slowly, “ _you_ want me to play my songs.”

Geralt feels his face flush with the warmth of the fire, and with the alcohol buzzing in his blood. “Well–”

“You want me to sing!” Jaskier crows, smile returning to his face in full force. “I knew it, you _like_ my singing, don’t you–”

“I can withdraw my request,” Geralt replies, but feels himself smiling too. Jaskier’s happiness, the mead – it is all contagious. Joy reverberates between them both. His heart feels lighter than it ever has, and yet, somehow, he also feels more himself than he does sober.

 _Perhaps this is who I might have been, were I not a witcher,_ Geralt thinks. Jaskier gives him a last, incredulous look of wild delight, and then runs off across the festival grounds, leaving Geralt adrift amongst the dancers. He makes his way back towards Roach, leaning on the same stack of hay bales that Jaskier had previously been sitting on. The distant heat of the fire warms his face pleasantly. He closes his eyes to it, takes stock of the contentment washing over him. _Feels like taking Swallow,_ Geralt thinks, _but without the terrible taste. Like the mead is mending a wound not of the flesh._

He thinks of how Lyfia’s thoughts had felt feather-soft, reassuring the frantic waves of his own mind into a tranquil pool. He wonders idly if Lyfia had whispered the recipe for this drink into the ears of one of her Chosen, or if some elf had named it after experiencing her grace.

He opens his eyes again as the song playing ends, and Geralt sees the dancers in front of him clap and cheer for the musicians. Then the instruments start up once more, and Geralt looks up at the raised platform from which the musicians are playing. There, amongst them, Jaskier is proudly conducting the others to a certain beat. Once he is satisfied that they have caught onto his rhythm, he nods, and they begin to play an upbeat tune Geralt is unfamiliar with. However, is clear that the Posadans recognise it; the musicians seem to play the song with no trouble at all, and the crowd whoops and cheers.

Jaskier sings.

_“I met my true love on a summer’s day,  
Singing te caen me a ledwedd,  
She was as handsome as the valley fae,  
Singing an aé esse te taedh._

_And her skin was pale as the sun is white,  
Singing beag bleidd aep gwyn tael,  
But her jaw was set and her corset tight,  
Singing ess've vort shaente aen fáill._

_The world gave me fame, love, mead, and gold,  
Singing elaine invaernelaith,  
Yet I’d follow her ‘til I grew old,  
Singing caen me a'baethe…”_

Geralt had not known that Jaskier knew Elder Speech so well as to write a song in it. Although he supposes it could well have been written by someone else... no. It’s one of Jaskier’s, Geralt is sure. Even if it weren’t for the mention of a white-tailed wolf, he would recognise the style of the song. The witcher may be untrained in the art of music, but decades of companionship from a bard who sings his sings incessantly would breed familiarity in even a deaf man’s ear. And the song is certainly well-chosen. Both the human and elven audience seem delighted with it.

Jaskier starts encouraging his audience to join in clapping to the beat, which they take up with great enthusiasm. Geralt is reminded suddenly of Asmund’s ship and crew, of how Jaskier led the men in rousing rounds of singing that echoed out across the churning seas.

 _It is amazing,_ he thinks, _how one musician can lead an army of men._

_“…But my love slipped from my grasping hands  
Singing n’te cáemm het va'en,  
So I searched for her across the lands,  
Singing aen aé’n'te caen, aé'll t’aecáemm._

_Then I learned she’d wed and would ne’er be mine,  
Singing gar'ean corrason y daerienn,  
So I drowned my tears in women and wine,  
Singing cáerme essn’te eigean._

_Then at last my love came back to my side,  
Singing het ess an folié stráede,  
I forgave her the marriage knot she’d tied,  
Singing het ess shaent y blath an bleidd.  
  
And I danced with my true love all night,  
Singing caen me t’corrason aedd,  
But she left again come morning light,  
Singing ire iokke, ire tedd!”_

The dancers cheer and crowd around him, some of them sitting down upon logs and benches, exhausted by their lively evening. Geralt sees other villagers have drifted over to the platform too, children and the elderly alike drawn in by the magic of Jaskier’s songs. He bows as they toss coins into his cap, most missing their mark and scattering upon the ground and wooden deck.

“Sing!” cry the villagers, enraptured by their new demi-god. “Sing!”

Jaskier grins, and plays another tune about a fishmonger’s daughter. This one Geralt knows well, and he lets the familiar melody wash over him as remembers a court full of colourful dresses and sparkling chandeliers. _That was nearly thirty years ago,_ Geralt thinks suddenly. _Even those that survived the Slaughter of Cintra will likely be dead._

The songs continue as the night goes on, and Geralt eventually grows wearisome enough that he takes a seat on the ground, with his back comfortably against the hay. Most of the villagers have also taken to sitting as well, and Geralt is pleased that his view to Jaskier is consequently unobstructed. Jaskier’s songs grow less spirited, and more soulful, as though sensing the shift in the energy of the crowd. Raucous songs about angry wives and bawdy, inappropriate tavern jingles make way for more poetic, sorrowful ballads.

One by one, the musicians around him abandon their stations until Jaskier is left alone, sweat shining on his face. The night sky is lightening with the violet hues of dawn.

“This is the last song for tonight,” Jaskier says finally, “You have all been such a terrific audience – thank you – thank you,” he repeats, as the villagers let up noises of protest at Jaskier’s declaration. “This song is new, and you have the honour of hearing its debut. It is dedicated to the first among you who asked me to sing,” he grins, and stares across the throngs of people straight at Geralt. The eye contact only lasts a second, before Jaskier closes his eyes. He plays the notes of the song’s introduction like that, fingers moving along the frets of his lute in a perfect, intricate dance.

_“In summer, you gave me my reason,  
So I hitched my heart to your horse,  
We crossed every fjord, and charmed every lord,  
Young love, without weight from remorse. _

_The harvest sun beat down upon us,  
The days, they were long and were ripe,  
The fields filled with wheat, the ale tasted sweet,  
And I drank my fill of the sights…”_

Geralt stares, unable to look away. He feels as though the way he thinks of Jaskier is reshaping around him, spilling out from under him. There is sadness in Jaskier, and lightness, in equal measure. There is sweetness and bitterness in his voice, joy and grief co-existing in harmony where they should clash in discord. The firelight has created a flickering halo around his form, and Geralt knows the villagers are watching him with the same reverence that Geralt himself feels.

 _He is beautiful,_ Geralt thinks, unable to think of another word to describe it.

_“…But autumn’s scent came ’round the corner,  
My smile turned to tears made of glass,  
You made me a fool, and yet, though you’re cruel,  
I’d follow, wherever you asked._

_Old leaves crushed sure as my heart, love  
I watched you take another in hand  
A wish for the sea, while precious to me,  
Was never what the fates had planned…”_

Geralt closes his eyes, and drifts upon the gentle waves of Jaskier’s voice, floating on tides of drowsy contentment. _Tomorrow,_ he thinks. They will need to make for Tretogor tomorrow, and find Kreve. They need to open a portal, and find Ciri, and defeat the Darkness…

“… _Come winter, my heart turned to ice, and  
My hearth was surrounded with snow  
The creeks we once crossed were frozen with frost,  
Pale pastures pecked at by crows._

_Don’t grieve, love, don’t show me your yearning  
Too little thought, and too late  
It must be this way, so if you must pray,  
Then wish, for a change to this fate…”_

_We will change fate,_ Geralt thinks irrationally, the shreds of his focus catching on to stray phrases from Jaskier’s song. _We will stop the Blight. This will end happily._

For some reason – whether it is the mead, or the atmosphere, or the blessings of the goddess herself, he feels – for the first time in a very, very long time – hopeful.

_“…When spring comes, after the rain storms,  
The sun will warm up us both,  
And if no light appears, and lives end in arrears,  
You’ll still have my undying oath._

_The fields, overflowing with flowers,  
The rivers abounding with trout,  
You’ll hear my fond song, and take me along,  
To that cottage I told you about…”_

He is filled with strange fondness for this world – this village, and its people, this land full of monstrous evil and kind-hearted strangers, living side by side. Cities and town filled with poverty and extravagance both, filled with people bursting with hope and despair and the desire to live another day. He thinks of Yennefer, of Triss, of the castle full of mages working together to stop the demise of the Continent. He thinks of Pratima, reading a stolen book by the light of their small fire. He thinks of Jaskier, laughing in the fields, his eyes alight with happiness.

_“...It’s cold, my love, but I am burning,  
With fire eternal like hope,  
Let fate be undone, a new story spun,  
That hangs us from a changed rope._

_One summer, unburdened from yearning,  
One autumn, unburdened from tears,  
One winter and spring, to let my soul sing,  
Freely, after these countless years._

As Jaskier’s song draws to a close, Geralt at last falls asleep. He dreams of fields of wheat, of the sound of crickets, and the softness of Jaskier’s hair against his fingers.

_Just one year, bathed in the sun, love  
Laughing about our shared past,  
I won’t keep you long, just stay for a song,  
So I might sleep, sated at last…”_

* * *

The next day, Geralt awakes to the smell of linen and lavender. He opens his eyes, disoriented. The last thing he can remember is passing out to the sound of Jaskier’s singing. No – there are flashes of memory. Walking arm in arm with Jaskier back to the villa, up a set of rocky stairs. Singing – not Jaskier’s, but his own. _Damn,_ Geralt thinks, with a flush of embarrassment.

Jaskier.

He rolls over and is greeted with the sight of his companion sleeping peacefully, his brown hair tousled all over the pillow. One arm is halfway stretched towards Geralt, but is at the same time curled inward. It is as though Jaskier’s subconscious reached out for Geralt in the night and then thought better of it at the last minute. 

The same morning light that illuminated Arianna yesterday is caught upon Jaskier’s cheek, dusting the underside of his eyelashes with gold. Something about the sight makes Geralt want to touch him, stroke the soft skin under the back of his fingers. He feels like a pilgrim seeking to receive a blessing from a holy statue.

Jaskier huffs in his sleep, and Geralt withdraws his fingers into a clenched fist.

He closes his eyes, and tries to remember the previous night. The alcohol has had a much worse effect than him than usual, and most of his memories after Lyfia are lost in a hazy blur. Most vivid is a sudden recollection of the sunrise, exquisite colours that broke through the distant mountains and coloured the landscape with red and yellow hues. From their viewpoint outside the villa, high up above the valley floor… well, it had been beautiful. And Jaskier – Jaskier had been beautiful too.

Geralt blinks. _Where had that come from?_ But he looks at Jaskier’s soft, unconscious face, and the thought remains. His friend _is_ beautiful. Of course, he had always known Jaskier to be handsome – but this was different. He understood, suddenly, what all those women like Arianna saw in him. It was as though the revelation had struck him while intoxicated with that damn mead, and now he couldn’t go back to seeing his friend’s features in quite the same way.

 _What, in the name of Melitele, was in that drink?_ Geralt thinks, half hysterically.

He gives in to whatever spirit is possessing him and runs his palm over the side of Jaskier’s cheek. The spot of sunlight dances over his fingers, and Jaskier murmurs softly.

“Mmnh… Geralt?” His friend opens his eyes groggily. “Woah, no hangover. That stuff is bloody excellent, eh?” There’s a pause, and then Jaskier blinks rapidly. “There a reason you’re staring at me like I just danced naked in front of Emhyr himself? Oh gods, am I about to be executed for–”

He cuts himself off, and then his eyes widen comedically. “Hey, _we did it_! We spoke with the damned goddess herself! Can’t wait to tell Yennefer, after all her doubt… That’ll show her!”

 _Yen._ Geralt rapidly draws back his hand, throwing back the quilted sheets and exiting the bed as quickly as he can.

“Yeah,” he replies in a strangled voice. _That_ damned _mead!_

“You alright, Geralt?” Jaskier says, looking at him with some concern. “I’d have thought getting back Roach would make you h– oh, gods, I left my lute down in Old Posada! You don’t think anything happened to it, do you?”

“Uh,” Geralt replies, scrambling to get his brain back in order. “Last I recall, the townsfolk were treating us like heroes. I doubt they would have made off with the instrument that brought them so much pleasure–” Jaskier opens his mouth, and Geralt cuts him off immediately. “Don’t. Don’t you say a damned thing.”

The bard smiles wickedly. Usually, Geralt would ignore him, but after last night – after that mead, the look makes his pulse race.

_For fuck’s sake, witcher._

It was clear as day that the mead had contained some sort of aphrodisiac in it; no wonder the Feste of the Scythe was so favoured by lovers. _Reaping what you sow, indeed,_ Geralt thinks scowling. But why had he ended up imprinting on _Jaskier_ of all people? And, come to think of it – shouldn’t Jaskier have been in _Arianna’s_ bed by now?

“I thought,” Geralt says haltingly. “I thought, uh. You’d be in someone else’s bed this morning. Seems like a waste to be in mine.”

A flash of something like hurt crosses Jaskier’s face, but he recovers quickly – and says, with a jesting smile, “Hmm. Lyfia’s, perhaps?”

“No.” Geralt says, struggling not to concentrate on the image of Jaskier fucking the blonde goddess in a forest glade. “Arianna. You know.”

Jaskier laughs. “Geralt,” he says patiently. “Geralt she’s… she’s eighteen,” he says, grinning stupidly at his friend. “She’s young enough to be my _daughter_.”

“Never stopped you before,” Geralt says moodily. His heart feels as though a weight has been taken off it, however, and combined with the mead’s aftereffects the experience makes him feel positively giddy.

“’Sides,” Jaskier says, too casually. “Thought she was into you. ‘Ze witcher, he is very handsome, no?’” he imitates, in a terrible Toussaint accent.

“Me?” Geralt chuckles, and then frowns. “Well. Maybe. But...”

“Yennefer,” Jaskier states desolately, as though mourning Geralt’s sex life.

“Mm,” Geralt says neutrally. But in truth, the sting of Yennefer’s tryst with Triss has been mellowed over with the past few days, and his hesitance with Arianna… it had been borne of something different.

“I’m sure you’ll get back together again, my friend,” Jaskier says consolingly, leaning forward in the bed and patting Geralt’s arm in brotherly sympathy. “You always do.”

“Come on,” Geralt says, shaking him off. “Gotta get on our way to Tretogor. Find a way to talk to Yen about Ciri.”

Jaskier gives out a whine of misery. “Just… one more day in Posada? Luxuriating in the reputation afforded by the Chosen Ones of the Goddess?”

“No,” Geralt growls. “Besides, I assure you that, after some time, hero worship grows as tiresome as spitting and curses.”

“For you, maybe,” Jaskier mutters, but he sighs, stretches and steps off of the bed.

“You pack up here,” Geralt says shortly. “I’ll go retrieve Roach, and your lute. Tie up any loose ends.”

“Mm,” his companion replies, staring out the window at the fields of flowers. “I hope we can come back here someday. After all this is over.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, even as his chest swells with the same sentiment.

* * *

When he returns an hour later, it is to find Jaskier and Arianna both on the villa’s front steps, his and Jaskier’s bags stowed neatly at the side of the front door. The girl looks far happier than Geralt expected her to be, given the circumstances.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries out. “You took your time! Thought you might have ridden off to have some alone time with your beloved steed.”

“Not funny,” Geralt grunts. “Speaking of reunited lovers, your lute is still in one piece.” He gestures with his head towards his back, where Jaskier’s lute is strapped safe and sound next to his twin swords.

“My one and only,” Jaskier sings delightedly. “My truest heart!”

Geralt steals a look back at Arianna, whose smile has definitely adopted a tinge of sorrow. But then, she, in turn, looks at Geralt. Their eyes meet, Arianna looking down at him from the top of the steps – and in her gaze is something like pity.

“We better head off,” Geralt says, discomforted by her scrutiny, looking to Jaskier instead. “Waste of good daylight, otherwise.”

“A moment, if you please,” Arianna calls. With some reluctance, Geralt turns back to her. “I just wanted to say thank you for everything. It was an honour to be of assistance to you both, and… and I won’t forget the conversations I had with you, either.”

“You were a wonderful conversationalist, Arianna,” Jaskier says sincerely, kissing her on her cheek before he leans over to pick up their bags. “And a tremendous host. As I told you earlier – I can understand completely why Dana Meadbh chose you for her vessel.”

The girl on the porch blushes. “Thank you, Master Jaskier. Farewell, and safe travels.”

“You told her?” Geralt whispers, as they descend the entranceway to the villa.

Jaskier shrugs. “Thought I’d let the girl know she’s not… uh. Unwanted. She’ll have all the respect and attention she deserves, one day.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier had always been terrible at comforting the women he spurned, but betraying a goddess’ confidence seemed like a rather dangerous method of distraction, even for him. 

By some unspoken agreement, they decide to take the long wooden bridge back down to the valley instead of the stone steps that wind around the rock face. The route gives them a pleasant view of the valley from overhead, one that Geralt can fully appreciate now that he isn’t swaying back and forth with dizziness. Jaskier bounces about on the bridge to make it tilt about dangerously, and laughs as Geralt glowers at him.

“Thought you hated heights.”

“Got used to them over the past two days,” Jaskier replies cheerfully. “Sort of unavoidable if you want to get around this place without burning calves and thighs. You know me, Geralt, I’m rather averse to pain. I decided a little bravery was warranted - and a gift of charity to my ageing knees.”

He jostles about on the bridge with a little dance, pointedly moving his knees about as his feet brush back and forth on the wooden planks.

“ _You_ don’t have to carry two bloody swords, a bag, and a lute about,” Geralt snaps. “I should have passed your lute back to you before we made the crossing. Then you might not be so frolicsome.”

“Frolicsome,” Jaskier says delightedly. “An excellent word. Puts to mind a sparrow, a dancing maid, a prancing deer…”

Geralt groans loudly, to no avail.

They end up selling one Geralt’s Ban Gleán horse to the Posadan farmer who took care it – who is so delighted that he barely haggles with them at all on the price. With that done, they at last set off down the river towards Lower Posada. The journey to Tretegor will be simple enough, if lengthier than Geralt would like. They will merely follow the Dyfne river due east, and then once it joins the Pontar, follow that all the way to Rinde. Tretogor lies not too far north-east of the city where so many of Jaskier’s ballads had been born.

 _Yen,_ Geralt thinks. He is pleased that, with fresh air and some distance from his companion, the disquieting effects of the Lammas mead seem to be fading.

“By the way,” Geralt asks, as the towers of Upper Posada disappear behind a curved ridge, “did you have any uh. Peculiar effects, from that mead? Abnormal feelings, maybe, about… other people?”

Jaskier, ahead of him, swivels around in his saddle. “Strange feelings? No more than usual. I mean, I was terribly happy about everything… blissful, really… but I don’t remember much more beyond that. Dana’s Mead is famous for three things; inexplicable happiness, the lack of a hangover, and – unfortunately – quite a bit of morning amnesia. I suppose all great things must have their downsides. But, strange feelings? No…” He pauses in thought, and then winks. “Perhaps you merely experienced happiness for the first time, dearest witcher.”

“Yeah,” mutters Geralt. “Something like that.” He stares at the winding road ahead, and tries very hard not to think about the way Jaskier’s eyelashes glow when filled with sunlight, or the feeling of his friend’s hair under his fingers – or the smell of hay, and lavender, and honeyed mead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, this fic takes TV canon to be true, rather than the equivalent short story ‘The Edge of the World’. To that end, Arianna is Lille 2.0.
> 
> The last song is based on the song written in the book titled _[Ballads](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Ballads)_ in the Witcher/Witcher 3, and shares phrases and imagery. The rhyming scheme is also the same as ‘Her Sweet Kiss’ verses, if you need a tune to sing to in your head (although it is not really meant to go to that tune in-universe, or it would end on a strange, unfinished note because it only uses verses. I imagine the tune as something more similar to Priscilla’s song. I haven’t written out choruses for these songs because that would be boring to read, although I’m sure pop-ballad bard Jaskier would have choruses in his songs.)
> 
> I never claimed Jaskier to be a good, or subtle, writer. He does know Elder Speech, though, as he sings an elven ballad ( _‘Elaine Ettariel’_ ) in _Time of Contempt_.
> 
> The Elder Speech song sections are (hopefully) translated as follows, with the tiniest bit of creative license with regards to metaphorical translations, sentence structure, grammar and rhyme compatibility. Hey, it was a pretty limited dictionary! I’m aware that David J. Peterson changed the language conventions for the Netflix show, but as I can’t find a proper dictionary for that I’m just going by the games/books-based Wiki. According to his [pronunciation guide](http://artoflanguageinvention.com/papers/hen_linge_spelling.pdf), though, it should _mostly_ rhyme.  
>  _  
> Te caen me a ledwedd – You give me a painting / you be my muse  
>  An aé esse te taedh – And I’ll be your poet_
> 
> _Beag bleidd aep gwyn tael – Little wolf with the white tail  
>  Ess've vort shaente aen fáill – Sing me a song of farewell_
> 
> _Elaine invaernelaith – Beautiful lady of winter  
>  Caen me a'baethe – Give me a kiss_
> 
> _N’te cáemm het va'en – Don’t come on this journey  
>  Aen aé’n'te caen, aé'll t’aecáemm. – Until I cannot, I will follow you / I’ll follow you for as long as I can_
> 
> _Gar'ean corrason y daerienn – Beware the heart of sorceresses  
>  Cáerme essn’te eigean – Destiny isn’t necessary / destiny isn’t all there is_
> 
> _Het ess an folié stráede – This is a foolish path / this way lies madness  
>  Het ess shaent y blath an bleidd – This is the song of the flower and the wolf_
> 
> _Caen me t’corrason aedd – Give me a piece of your heart  
>  Ire iokke, ire tedd – Another place, another time  
> _
> 
> Geralt can understand Elder Speech, but he assumes Jaskier’s songs are written about him and Yennefer. Apparently Jaskier can get away with anything by using switching perspectives and a few well-placed gendered pronouns. I promise Geralt is dumb about all this for good reasons...
> 
> [Sorry for the extensive notes section!! This is definitely my favourite of the chapters so far. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! My semester is back in session, so updates may be slower again. But I’ll do my best! As always, if you notice errors please let me know, I certainly noticed a shameful amount of typos on my own read-throughs.]


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